


Puckurt 31 Texts From Last Night (January 2013)

by test_kard_girl



Series: Puckurt Texts From Last Night [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My third (and currently final!) set of Puckurt drabbles based around the theme Texts From Last Night, this batch from January 2013. There's alot of two-parters in this edition, 'cos I was trying to stick to the 'drabble' thing. I hope you don't feel cheated! Your feedback is always appreciated, I loved writing these!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (412):Why did you send me 12 pictures in a row of your expressionless face at 2:30 am?

**(412):Why did you send me 12 pictures in a row of your expressionless face at 2:30 am?**

Puck glowers balefully up at the streetlamp-striped ceiling. This is dumb. It's  _New Year's_  for crying out loud. There is no way he should be cuddled up in bed  _alone_  on New Year's. It's unheard of. Maybe those Mayan dudes were coupla days out with their end-of-the-world crap, 'cos Puck hasn't resigned himself to a New Year's Eve  _sans coitus_ since before Lindsay Lohan started visiting those nice high-security centres in Malibu.

Finn snorts loudly in his sleep, rolling over and tangling his sheets even tighter around his drunk, flaily moose limbs. Puck resists the urge to chuck a cushion at his head.

Kurt's just across the hall.

Puck closes his eyes, pressing a palm against his own warm stomach.

Kurt's  _just across the hall_. He's probably awake too; freaking out about how often Puck managed to sidle into his personal space tonight, or find excuses for their hands to touch, or have his lips against his ear. Or maybe about that really really fucking  _hot_  kiss that was the result of a not-totally-legit round of Spin the Bottle. Kurt does have this tendency to freak the hell out about stuff. But look-- it's New Years', and what Puck wants in his bed in New Years' he usually doesn't have much trouble convincing.

Except, apparently, Kurt is dense. Like,  _insanely_  dense.

Puck exhales, frustrated, his hand slipping downwards to cup lovingly around his cock. His poor, lonely cock: neglected and unsucked.

Puck's pretty sure he's not gonna make it through the night without doing something dumb to sort this shit out. But what? Party's over. The New Year's Eve get-out-of-jail-free card is fast expiring and  _dammit_ , but Puck wants Kurt's hot little body wrapped around his.

'Course, he could just get up and creep across the hall. But chances are Berry would be awake and talking about shoes or Twilight or some crap, and Puck kinda doubts Kurt would be in an accommodating mood with his fag hag listening in, even after two bottles of pink champagne.

Frowning grumpily to himself, Puck flails a hand out the side of the duvet, fingers grasping dumbly at the carpet till they curl round his phone. He presses the unlock button and thrusts the little gadget quickly under his covers again before Finn notices. Yup, Puck think, as he squints at the finely honed hunk of manhood illuminated in the blue glow of his phone screen: he's still got it. Glass-cutting abs? Check. Thighs like pistons? Check. And with all the girly bling Kurt snazzes himself up with, Puck bets he'd find the nipple ring a real turn-on.

Truefax. If Kurt had any real idea of what he was missin' out on, there is no way either of them would be alone and sulking as the sun rises on 2013.

_...Wait._

Puck turns his phone round. Squints at it; pouts as the light fades out.

This has one of those double-camera things.

Puck grins.

One hand still kneading thoughtfully at his dick, Puck uses the other to thumb through his apps, squinting till his drink-clouded eyes find the little icon that looks most like a camera. He clicks it. All at once, the jaunty iPhone graphics fade, and instead his screen goes all black and fuzzy.

Oh, the flash; right.

Puck presses the camera button: all at once his abs, his thighs and the hand curled possessively round his hardening cock are lit up in bright, starry whiteness under the covers. The light flashes; then all is dark again. Puck blinks, burying his head against the pillow. There's little purple spots pulsing in front of his eyes.  _Jesus_ , that flash is bright. Is it meant to be, like, right up in his face?

He glances back at his screen. it's already returned to the camera view, and Puck takes the liberty of zooming in a bit so the more-- ahem --  _aroused_  parts of his anatomy are front and centre.

With black holes still eating at his vision, Puck grins. There is no way Kurt can mis-read his intentions with pics like this brightening up his evening.

He presses the button again; the flash goes, and Puck almost groans with the sudden assault of light on his eyeballs.

Dammit. Stupid camera.


	2. 2.(810): Did you ever notice that cashews look like fetuses?

**(810): Did you ever notice that cashews look like fetuses?**

"Stop fondling your nuts Puckerman."

Puck sticks his tongue out, dropping half his handful of cashews back into the stupid little cameo glass finger-bowls Kurt always brings out for special occasions.

"Never heard you say that before." He grunts.

Kurt gives him The Eyebrow: "I say that to you  _plenty_."

He nudges Puck's foot, and Puck obediently folds his legs up so Kurt can nestle down at the other end of the sofa. When he's settled, Puck smooshes his toes under his boyfriend's thighs.

"Really though." He insists, holding a cashew up between them. "Look at it. I might draw a face on it..."

"Is this you getting broody or something?" Kurt asks bluntly, examining the nut in front of him. "Because it's unsettling. And still no: it's a cashew nut, it looks like a cashew nut."

Puck leans forward, feigning huffiness. "You have no imagaination."

Kurt closes the last of the space between them to peck him briefly on the lips. "I imagined  _you_  were a sensible choice for a boyfriend, I'm practically drowning in creative whimsy over here. Look:" He reaches across to the coffee table and snatches another handful of nut-mix, searching through it till he finds a pecan: "What's this one?."

Puck studies it:

"Shrivelled brain."

Kurt's eyebrows go in all sorts of directions: "Ew."

But that doesn't stop him taking aim and flicking it in the direction of Puck's face. Reflexively, Puck opens his mouth, and snatches the weird little snack-food expertly out of mid-air.

" _Yeahhh_..." He crows around a mouthful of pecan brittle. "Quite a catch, huh?"

"Oh you definitely are." Kurt agrees, nodding. But his smile's all curly and amused at the corners. He holds up another nut: "Peanut?"

Puck knocks his knee against his boyfriend's. "Shut up-- peanuts look like peanuts." Puck rationalises. What does Kurt think; That he's some kind of mental case or something? He crosses his arms. "And I'm pretty sure you're taking the piss now."

"No I'm not, I'm not, I'm just curious." Kurt assures him, patting his foot. "It's like an inkblot test for the alcoholically insane. Alright, how about... Almond?"

Oh; the big pretty white ones. Well that's a total other thing:

"...Unicorn's teardrop."

" _Seriously_?"


	3. (314): I noticed how good my hair still looked. Apparently rum and coke in it helps it stay curly through sex. May be using this more often.

**(314): I noticed how good my hair still looked. Apparently rum and coke in it helps it stay curly through sex. May be using this more often.**

Stupid? Probably. But Kurt is enjoying stupid tonight. No, he is  _literally_  enjoying stupid: he has Noah Puckerman sprawled in casual disarray across the top of his bedsheets.

Turns out; stupid is  _plenty hot_.

"Mmm, yeah... oh yeah..."

Kurt leans over, slipping his hand up Puck's shirt as their mouths try and find each other again:  _God_ , Puck's a good kisser. He tugs with half-numb fingers at the hem of Puck's tee and the other boy obediently shifts so Kurt can drag it over his head and toss it onto the carpet. It's surprisingly quick work for Puck to peel apart the buttons of Kurt's shirt and do the same.

"...Think that's a new record." Kurt breathes.

Puck grins lecherously against his ear: "...Not my first time." He catches Kurt's mouth again, and Kurt whimpers, curling his fingers in Puck's normally-offensive haircut as the other boy's hands skim eagerly down his back.

Puck tugs at his belt: "If I have a go at your pants..." He growls between kisses "...There's not a combination lock or something is there?"

"Shut up, it's fashion." Kurt returns poutingly.

"It's cock-blocking."

"Do you  _see me_  blocking your cock?"

Puck actually stops, blinking like Kurt's just bopped him on the nose.

"...Just, I've never heard you say 'cock' before." Puck admits eventually.

Kurt stares.

"I'm gay." He reiterates, for the sake of all present. "If I get squeamish about saying the word 'cock', I'm probably never gonna get any--"

\--Then, he unashamedly screams like a girl as his hot skin is suddenly doused with ice-cold:

"OH MY GOD!!!!"

"Oh my god, Puck and Kurt!  _Puck and Kurt_!!!"

"What the  _hell_  are you doing to him???!!"

For one horrible gut-churning second, ever-so-slightly-inebriated Kurt is convinced it's the voice of God.

...It's not though. it's just Finn.

"Fuck off Finnocense." Puck snaps, squinting into the sudden flood of light. "No free shows 'round here."

Finn splutters, mostly incoherent: "That's, that's my, he's my  _step-brother_ \--!"

"--Well as long as  _you're_  not fucking him, we're probably ok--"

"What have you  _done_  to me???" Kurt whimpers, dazed by the sudden cacophony. He has... stuff... dripping from his hair...  _stuff_... in his  _hair_... Oh god, is is blood? Is it  _blood_? Is this  _Carrie_?

It seems drunk Rachel's appeared too: "Wooo, looks like a party going on in here!!!" She observes intelligently. There's a thump, which is probably her draping herself over the doorframe: "I'd be very very careful with him Kurt: he is, by all accounts,  _extremely_  fertile..."

What?

"...What?" Finn's voice echoes, his confusion giving Puck a chance to dis-entangle himself from Kurt's legs and clamber across the room.

"Kurt, don't trust him, he's--"

"--Make sure you use protection! I can thoroughly recommen--!"

"Be gone, creepers." Puck intones like a magic spell, slamming Kurt's door in their faces.

In the sudden silence, Kurt's pretty sure he hears the lock click as well.

Puck huffs, crossing his arms over his perfect, sweaty torso. "Well there he is: Finn Hudson: moment killer."

But Kurt doesn't hear him. He's preoccupied running his fingers unhappily through his artfully-dishevelled party hair: "...The moron. He threw his drink at me..."

Puck glances up. "What?"

"Rum and coke." Kurt repeats unhappily. His fingers are sticking to his skin: "...Ew."

Something seems to flicker in Puck's eyes. He looks at Kurt with renewed curiosity. "Rum and coke?"

"It's everywhere..." Kurt agrees mournfully.

Puck sits down quite heavily at the corner of the bed.

"I uh... You want me to...uh... help clean you up?" He suggests, and Kurt looks quizzically at him for moment before Puck leans in to lick a hot, careful stripe along the dip of his collarbone.

Oh.

Well. That's an idea. 


	4. (843): My neck kind of hurts. I think from sleeping on the concrete.

**(843): My neck kind of hurts. I think from sleeping on the concrete.**

"Puck. Puck.  _Puckerman_!"

Puck has no idea where he is. He curls closer in on himself, a defenceless foetus abandoned by its mother:

" _\-- g' way_."

"...You're a really unattractive hobo, do you know that?"

Puck scrunches his face up, resisting as his brain begins to grind agonisingly slowly against the inside of his skull. The voice isn't the one he expected, but, as the corkscrewing of his stomach reminds him, it makes sense. He remembers where he is: On Finn Hudson's doorstep. On Kurt Hummel's doorstep too; 'cos their folks got married... They got married, yeah... Puck sang at their wedding.

The wedding; otherwise know as The Wedding Where Puck Couldn't Keep His Cock In His Pants.

 _Fuck_.

Puck curls his body up even further, gritting his teeth as the feeling starts to come painfully back into his toes.

"...I'm not moving till he talks to me." He repeats stubbornly. He has a blurry flashback of slurring the same words up at Finn's window for a couple of hours in the dark last night; some dog yapping; Puck plonking himself on the Hudson-Hummel's front-step while Finn's mom begged him to be quiet and go home.

Kurt sighs.

"It's six in the morning Puck. He won't be awake for another seven hours... Or until someone puts bacon on the grill, whatever comes first."

Puck's stomach makes a whining sound; kinda like that starving mutt that came up and tried to pee on him a coupla hours ago.

" _Really_." Kurt tries again: "Come inside and stop being a moron. I put the kettle on. Have some coffee. "

At that, the feel of Kurt's hand against his shoulder, Puck's body stiffens. He  _so_  doesn't need Kurt Hummel's sympathy.

But it disappears quickly enough. Despite himself, Puck prises an eyelid open and realises the other boy's lowered himself tentatively onto the other end of the step.

Figuring his feet are gonna be jabbing into Kurt's thigh if he stays here, Puck finally forces his cramped body to sit up. As soon as he straightens his spine though, he has to curl back in on himself again. Christ. Ow. Not good at all.  _Ow_... His joints make a dispiriting crackling noise and Kurt's eyebrow disappears up into his bangs.

"Yeah well, you try sleeping out on concrete in October." Puck grunts at him. Kurt continues to look unimpressed.

"No thanks."

They stare straight ahead, watching the sun struggle to rise behind the row of houses opposite. Puck scratches at his stubbly jaw; chances a curious glance at Kurt to see if he's suffering the same problem, at six on a Saturday morning. He isn't really. But he looks especially pale in the gray dawn light. A bit guiltily, Puck wonders how Kurt's getting on at Dalton. It's been a couple of weeks now; he hasn't asked.

He chickens out of course, distracted instead by the fleecy white thing curled around Kurt's arms.

"Hey. Wassat?" Puck mutters, jerking his chin and Kurt glances down, like he'd forgotten he had it:

"Oh... Blanket."

Puck stomach twists a bit.

"... For me?"

"I thought you might have died." Kurt answers airily. "We've just moved to the neighbourhood, I wanted to mask your corpse from any curious toddlers."

Puck snorts, resting his swollen head once more in his arms.

It's cemetery quiet out here. The sky is still hazy and damp, the moisture in the air clinging to Puck's skin; sticking up his nose; gumming his eyelashes. Beside his battered sneakers, Kurt's slippers look ridiculously extravagant.

Kurt nudges his shoulder.

"...Puck, it is  _cold_  out here."

Somewhere in the hedge, a bird starts its discordant just-woke-up chirping. Puck glowers:

"... Finn's a dick." He mutters, feeling his gut wrench.

Kurt doesn't reply. Just cranes his head backwards to look at the lightening sky.

After another moment, he gets up and heads back into the house, leaving unhappiness to creep coldly up Puck's limbs like icy stick-insects.

When he returns just a few minutes later, thrusting a steaming mug of coffee into Puck's hands and dropping the blanket unceremoniously across his knees, Puck almost cries with relief. 


	5. (605): I'm not really made for random hookups.. i'm like a swan.. i don't wanna have random swan sex. i just wanna have one swan hubby and fly around the world together and eat bread that people throw at us...

**(605): I'm not really made for random hookups.. i'm like a swan.. i don't wanna have random swan sex. i just wanna have one swan hubby and fly around the world together and eat bread that people throw at us...**

"...You're up early." Puck observes shortly, shuffling past Kurt on his way to the refrigerator. He eats badly in the mornings. Kurt on the other hand-- when faced with their student-poverty and an imposed diet of Pop Tarts-- has instead gone down the route of not eating at all. He figures it'll pay off when all that skinny tailoring hits next Spring/Summer.

He doesn't even really have the energy to bristle:

"Please don't lecture. I  _know_ , ok?"

He pours hot water into his travel tumbler, inhaling the crap instant coffee and pretending it's meant to smell like that. Another week and he can afford Starbucks. Whoop; Starbucks.

"...Did you at least get his name this time? He looked kinda..."

"--Drunk." Kurt supplies shortly. "He looked drunk."

"Yeah." Puck agrees, scratching his neck and extracting a bottle of strawberry milk from the inside of the fridge door.

Kurt leans tiredly back against the counter, gazing at the floor and noticing how it still takes a moment for his eyes to catch up with his brain.

"... And he could sing." He murmurs, mostly to himself.

Puck plucks one of their six glasses from the draining board and pours himself some milk, filling the glass up right to the rim like he's ten years old or something, and daring himself not to spill. After a moment, Kurt watches Puck's feet turn round and how he shifts the weight to his heels, leaning against the counter opposite and staring back at him.

"...Does it always feel this shit?" Kurt asks baldly. "Or is that just me?"

Puck's mouth tightens, and Kurt guesses he's probably not being all that tolerant of alternate lifestyles right now. Really, that's something he should try and work on.

"It's just you."

Kurt nods. Right. Fine then.

"...I'm just  _sick_  of..."

"Being alone?" Puck suggests, and it's not even slightly sympathetic.

It's cold this morning, Kurt realises, glancing out the window. He thinks longingly of all the woolen scarves he has hanging up colour-coded in his closet. His closet, right beside his dishevelled, sweaty bed with a passably-pretty, naked, probably-hungover boy in it.

"-- _Geez_ ; it must be my time of the month or something." He exhales cuttingly, stuffing his phone and a couple of pens into his bag. He has to force himself to meet Puck's eyes again, 'cos he hates when the other boy clams up and doesn't say anything and just looks at him with that cocked eyebrow and reminds Kurt that there's still a tattered ultrasound picture buried in his bedside drawers.

(Y'know, beneath all the condoms).

The silence stretches between them like gum about to snap.

"...Can you, tell him I have class today?" Kurt asks quietly, hating himself for how he hates himself a little bit less than he did last time.

Puck shrugs: "He seemed like a nice guy--"

"--  _Please_  Puck. I-I left a message on his phone, I'll text him later I just..." Puck doesn't finish his sentence for him and Kurt swallows unhappily. "...I need to go." 


	6. (314): Would you even take no as an answer? I have a feeling you see it more as a challenge.

**(314): Would you even take no as an answer? I have a feeling you see it more as a challenge.**

"Well..." Kurt searches for any appropriately dumbstruck response. His vocabulary wasn't prepared for this. "This is... what.... What  _is_  this, Puck?"

See, he was pretty sure he was walking onto an empty stage, except... Now he's suddenly once more on the set for _West Side Story_ , arranged like for that balcony scene that Kurt never got to play; above him hundreds of newly-installed fairylights twinkle lazily in the backcloth, an impossibly starry night in Manhattan, perfect for star-gazing; the band's instruments are set-up against the wings, as if ready to serenade at a moment's notice, lorded over by Brad's trusted piano, and ... and is that (Kurt holds up a hand to check) is that  _glitter_ , drifting serenely down from the rigging?

And right in the middle of this wonderously romantic vista, stands Noah Puckerman.

Crazy, crazy Noah Puckerman, who can't back down from a challenge.

Noah Puckerman, wearing nothing but his underwear.

The boy tips Kurt a wink:

"Hey sexy."

It takes all Kurt has not to die of the complete and utter nonsense that his senior year has become.

Kurt points at the floor: "Ok, Puck: you know what you're doing right now?"

Puck considers for a moment: "Freezing my balls off?"

"This has gone past winning a bet. This is you wooing me. You're genuinely wooing me."

Puck narrows his eyes:

"...What?"

" _Wooing_." Kurt repeats, and tries to keep his glee to a minimum. "Courting.  _Seducing_."

"What I'm doing, Jo Calderone, is proving that no warm body with a functional sex drive, chick  _or_  dude, is immune to the Puckmeister's love arsenal."

He kind of growls that last bit, and reclines languorously against the artistically placed piano.

Kurt bites his thumb, trying to hold back a giggle.

"Well. I certainly admire your... effort."

Puck doesn't look totally amused: "Do I get a gold star?" He snarks.

"It's Rachel who gives out stars." Kurt corrects him, taking a few steps closer and realising with a start there's a single long-stemmed red rose lying next to Puck's elbow. It's the first time he's felt his cheeks heat up, and he nods towards it:

"...That for me?"

Puck follows Kurt's gaze. "Oh. Yeah."

Kurt takes the rose, automatically bringing it up to sniff the perfume.

"Uh... yeah." Puck explains: "It's not real. I got roses for Lauren once and she bitched they died after like a  _day_  or something, so I figured a fabric one would last longer. Look prettier in your room. Whatever."

Kurt's glad he's got a flower in front of his face, 'cos it masks his smile just a little bit.

"That's... weirdly thoughtful, Puck."

 

**It got long! Part 2 tomorrow :)**


	7. (314): Would you even take no as an answer? I have a feeling you see it more as a challenge.

**NB: Continuation of day 6**

**(314): Would you even take no as an answer? I have a feeling you see it more as a challenge.**

"I know, right? It's the kinda thoughtful, sensitive guy thing I do."

"Is it a kind of thoughtful, sensitive-guy thing that lasts  _after_  sex?"

That's probably a bit mean, Kurt chastises himself, as Puck does that face he used to pull around Quinn when she was raging on pregnancy hormones-- like someone's kicked his puppy with a steel-toed Doc Martin. The boy  _has_ gone all out to make his point, even if it isn't leading to anything. He's in his  _boxers_  for crying out loud! It's a sight sophmore Kurt could've only  _dreamed_  of being consensually privy too.

(And maybe he did. Once or twice).

Becoming conscious once more of where exactly they are, Kurt holds a hand up to his eyes, squinting towards the lighting desk:

"Jacob isn't working the lights is he?"

"Nah. He set them up, but he promised to piss off in exchange for some mp3s of Rachel singing Rhianna songs... that one about the lesbians?... I think we're ok."

Kurt wrinkles his nose. That's unsavoury on levels he doesn't even want to think about.

"So."

Kurt turns back, finding Puck looking more than a little bit cold.

"Whaddya think? You willing to be my first gay lay?"

Kurt really can't do anything but blink: "...Well, as impressed as I am with your rhyming skills--"

"-- For hell's sake Kurt, what else do you--"

"--Take me to dinner."

It's Puck's turn to blink.

"...Come again?"

"We'll split the bill, it's ok; if Destiny's Child succeeded in anything they made it sexy to be an Independant Woman."

"...Wait. Are  _you_  asking  _me_  out?"

Kurt crosses his arms.

"That's usually the next stage in the seduction plan, right? Actually spending some time together?"

Puck looks awkward. "... Not usually how my plan goes." He admits, and Kurt rolls his eyes.  _Boys_.

"Well, consider me not quite swept off my feet by your--" He makes the quote marks with his fingers "'love arsenal'."

Puck stares at him for a long second more. Kurt takes the time to admire his cheekbones.

"You realise I'm almost naked right now, right?"

"I really do." Kurt smiles. He  _is_  enjoying the view, he has to admit.

"And you wanna go to  _dinner_?"

"Why Puck, you're such a gentleman!--I'll get my coat." Kurt replies enthusiastically and, before Puck can form words again, Kurt scampers up, presses a quick kiss to Puck's cheek, and strides off backstage to get his stuff.

Damn it. He loves this game.


	8. (347): Two dudes. Loud music. Dancing shirtless possibly naked. Why would I ever need cable?!

**(347): Two dudes. Loud music. Dancing shirtless possibly naked. Why would I ever need cable?!**

So the deal is: at first it's Brittany. It's Brittany, doing her usual: getting shit-faced and taking her clothes off-- and everyone's cool with that, 'cos it's Brittany, and she's a whimsical unicorn of sexy.

And then Santana joins in, and Puck's looking at them grinding all up against each other, his blurry eyes finding it hard to keep up with their gyrations, and he's wondering:  _why is it always the girls jumping up on tables and getting their tops off?_

He's never wondered this before. It's strange. But anyhow, it feels unbalanced, so he just plonks his beer down on the floor (he loses that beer afterwards, stupid beer pixies) and starts unbuttoning.

"Holy  _nipple ring_."

Puck turns his head, hanging onto his chair for balance. He'd forgotten Kurt was sitting next to him. He has his own glass halfway to his lips and his eyes are bigger than Puck's head.

Puck grins, feeling the familiar shudder of irresponsibility skate up his spine:

"You like?"

Hummel's lips make some soundless shapes for a minute, before the song changes and it's something alot heavier, a lot bassier, getting right down in Puck's bones and making his heart thump in his jugular. And other places.

Without thinking, Puck leans down, curling a hand in Kurt's hair and kissing him hard, drink almost making him miss his lips altogether.

"Lets show these chicks how it's done, huh?"


	9. (347): Two dudes. Loud music. Dancing shirtless possibly naked. Why would I ever need cable?!

**(347): Two dudes. Loud music. Dancing shirtless possibly naked. Why would I ever need cable?!**

Breath shaking, Puck wraps his arms around Kurt's waist, pulling him back against his bare chest, tilting his crotch against Kurt's ass and biting his lip at the delicious friction of it. He doesn't stop dancing. He gyrates his hips as best as he knows how, guiding their bodies as one, and feels like he's going blind with want.

He's never done this with a guy before.

"Santana's trying to undo Brittany's bra with her tongue." Kurt comments hazily, as they watch the two girls continue their striptease. He only ever lisps his  _s_ 's now when he's drunk. Or nervous. It makes Puck shiver.

"...Maybe I get to take your shirt off then?"

Kurt says nothing.

His fingers find Kurt's shirt buttons. It takes a couple of tries, but he manages to undo one, the middle one, maybe the fourth one, and Puck's hand slips inside, and he groans against Kurt's ear at the sudden heat of skin against skin.

" _Fuck_..." He breathes hotly and, all at once, almost overbalancing the two of them, Kurt's turned all way back round again, staring at Puck with his big pretty girl-eyes and his fingernails digging into his forearms.

Kurt is terrified. He's  _terrified_ , and Puck can see it. The flush in his face trickles down his neck and under the 'v' of his shirt. But his pupils are blown wide with alcohol and his lips are red with salt and lime and three rounds of Spin the Bottle, so Puck bets he won't back down until he falls down. Plus, Kurt Hummel could kick his ass in a stubbornness contest any day of the week.

"Everyone's watching." The other boy whispers warningly; and Puck's heart thumps at how the tiny smirk that twists Kurt's mouth mirrors his own.

Easing him closer, Puck makes short work of the rest of Kurt's shirt-buttons, breathing heavily when he finally exposes the other boy's pale, lean chest. He is not a girl. He is really  _really_  not a girl.

Somehow, it doesn't seem to matter.


	10. (870): I'm handcuffed to your bathroom sink. Save me.

**(870): I'm handcuffed to your bathroom sink. Save me.**

"So. This has a reasonable explanation, yes?"

Puck stares up at the ceiling, wondering if God can see him scowling from here. Of course Finn would send  _Hummel_ to answer the one text that pre-supposed Puck being handcuffed to the sink, naked aside from, kinda, half a sock:

"Use your imagination, Judy Garland; I'm not here polishing your floor with my ass."

"Strange, I thought that was exactly what you were doing." Kurt replies flatly. "Or at least, that's what it sounded like from the other side of the house."

Puck smirks. So, he's loud when he's getting off? He likes to show his appreciation.

"Get you hard Hummel?"

"Sure, Puck. Now; don't suppose you know where they key is?"

Puck grins: "...Seriously? You're not even gonna peek?"

'Cos Kurt's still only halfway inside the doorway, averting his head from Puck's spread-eagled form with one horrified hand clamped over his eyes.

"What, and intentionally blind myself?"

"Sure Frodo won't mind."

"Don't call him that-- And I  _could_  just leave you here, y'know." Kurt adds huffily, seeming caught between keeping his eyes shielded and wanting to cross his arms sulkily across his chest.

That's true, Puck guesses, and forces himself to swallow down his next sarky reply. Not that it's so awful, just lazing here, slumped against the foot of the sink. Just, he can kinda feel that post-bang need to tinkle.

"...They had a key?" He questions instead, brain suddenly catching up to Kurt's previous question. Oh,  _bitch_.

Kurt leans his forehead momentarily against the doorframe. "Well of course they had a key, they're  _handcuffs_."

Puck automatically flexes his wrists, suddenly feeling a little stab of panic at how little give there is in the metal. It feels way less fun than it did twenty minutes ago. "Isn't there just like a safety catch or something? There's gotta be a safety catch..."

To Puck's chagrin, he's pretty sure he can hear Kurt start to snicker under his breath:

"--Oh god..."

"Right, that's just  _hilarious_  Kurt--"

"--Sorry, sorry, you're right--"

"-- _Damn straight_  I'm right-- you really want me to be here naked in your bathroom when your dad gets back? Where the  _hell's_  the key?"

But now Kurt's full out giggling: "How should I know where the--?"

"-- Well I got them from  _your drawers_  didn't I?!"

That shuts him up.


	11. (870): I'm handcuffed to your bathroom sink. Save me.

**(870): I'm handcuffed to your bathroom sink. Save me.**

"...What?"

Puck smirks humourlessly as Kurt's hand drops back to his side, revealing horrified eyes.

Wow. And he didn't think Kurt could  _get_  anymore pale.

" _Yeah_." Puck continues, bopping his eyebrows: "Shoulda figured sooner, what with all that bondage gear you rock up in."

Kurt grips the door-handle, staring panickingly out into the hallway. "Shut-up..."

"Don't be embarrassed babe, we all got our dirty little--"

Kurt slams the bathroom door, flicking the lock. " _Stop it_." He warns, hot pink spots appearing on his cheeks. "You cannot tell..." He jabs a finger at Puck's face. "You cannot tell  _anyone_."

Puck cocks his head: "Even your boyfriend?"

The look on Kurt's face answers that one.

Well that's just  _priceless_. Puck thinks giddily, as he watches Kurt crouch down to his level, still doing his very best to avoid looking at Puck's cock.

(for the record, Puck wouldn't actually care. He has an awesome cock.)

"So." Puck says smoothly, rattling the handcuffs against the enamel. "You get me outta these I promise to keep your kinky little secret. How's that sound?"

Kurt scowls at him, resting a hand against the floor (then briskly removing it again when he remembers exactly what Puck's just finished doing all over it).

"Oh that sounds like a fantastic idea." The other boy drawls back, staring into Puck's eyes with someone not too far away from pure hatred. "Except, I haven't used them in months..."

Puck feels his heart sinking into his stomach. He suddenly knows exactly what Kurt's going to say.

"...I  _lost the keys_  for them."


	12. (215): i came so hard i kicked through my windshield

  
**(215): i came so hard i kicked through my windshield**

"Kurt, now you gotta tell me... Do you know who did this?"

Kurt knows that look of his dad's face.

"It wasn't bullies dad." He sighs. "Trust me. Or if it was, they weren't bullying  _me_ , because Santana's the only one I know who lives around Lima Heights. It was a just a dumb accident."

"A dumb  _expensive_  accident." His dad corrects, cocking an eyebrow in a way that, at the moment, reminds Kurt way too much of someone else.

"Hey Mr Hummel." A voice calls, and Kurt closes his eyes.  _That_  someone else, in fact.

"Hi Puck." Burt says, offering the traditional chin-jerk greeting that men do. Puck returns it, and when he notices Kurt perched on the work-bench he has to physically fight to keep the smug asshole grin off his face.

"Hey Kurt... Uh, Finn about? He said Rachel'd given him a reprieve from date-night while she was camping out in front of that choir director's house."

To his dad's credit, he doesn't even question the authenticity of that statement.

"He's putting some tyres on a Chevy, but he finishes at two. You at this party last night? Some douche kicked a hole in Kurt's windshield."

_Oh god we have got to get Puck into some acting classes_  Kurt realises despondently, as he watches the other boy try to school his face into something other than shit-eating glee:

"Yeah I saw it this morning, what the hell? Didn't hear nothing though... But I guess we had the music up kinda loud."

His dad knocks his cap back a little on his head. "Some delinquent's got a point to make."

"I  _reeeally_  doubt it." Kurt chips in once more. Like anyone's listening.

"Nah, no-one pushes Kurt around anymore." Puck agrees, shooting Kurt a wink. Kurt just glares flatly back at him. "...He's got enough attitude to skewer anyone's balls to the wall."

"Yep." His dad drawls, looking amused despite Puck's inappropriate genitalia referencing. "That's my boy."

Kurt smiles tightly back at him. "Just, take it out my wages, ok?" He repeats finally, breaking out the pleading-eyes. "It was just a stupid accident, and I promise I won't park on the street in Lima Heights ever again."

His dad gives him a mocking little salute: "Sure thing boss." He says, then turns to Puck: "Make that two-thirty. I'll get Finn to help me out with this then he's all yours. "

Kurt tightens his grip on the edge of the bench, waiting till his dad's out of earshot. Then he glowers at Puck:

"And what was  _that_ , your poker-face?" He hisses.

A grin stretches over Puck's mouth as he thrusts his hands into his pockets, wandering over. "Yeah. Pretty good huh?"

"Not exactly."

Puck stops when Kurt's resolutely crossed knees get in the way of his coming any closer. Kurt's all girded to resist him and everything; but his stomach still clenches when Puck brushes his fingers briefly against his calf: "How's your leg?"

"Sore." Kurt whispers back, ignoring how his skin prickles at the scent of Puck's cologne tickling his nostrils. "And inconvenient. Do you know how painful it is to wear knee-high Doc Martens with twelve stitches?"

"Really no." Puck looks regretful. And kind of intrigued."...Can I see?"

" _Puck_!" Kurt smacks the other boy's hand away, jabbing his finger in his face: "Stop it!"

Puck grins, leaning in and resting a hand either side of Kurt on the workbench.

"Right. 'Cos it was a one-time thing, yeah?"

"Yes, it was. A one time thing; and clearly God is punishing me for being so stupid, so stop it."

Puck shrugs: "Okay, your call." Then he leans in again, pressing his mouth so close against Kurt's ear Kurt can feel the hot dampness of his breath against his skin: "...But I did you so good you kicked a hole through solid glass and didn't notice till you started bleeding out on the upholstery, so--"

"--Oh  _crap_ , the upholstery!" Kurt realises, grabbing the front of Puck's shirt just as his dad's voice calls out:

"Hey Kurt... you wanna maybe come here and explain your seat cushions to me--?"

 


	13. (810) i know ur right I'm sorry I'm stupid and incompitent look I can't even spell incompetent right! Fuck!

**(810) i know ur right I'm sorry I'm stupid and incompitent look I can't even spell incompetent right! Fuck!**

_"Just a small town girl living in a lonely world..."_

Puck grits his teeth as his phone buzzes futily in his back pocket.

_"She took the midnight train goin aaanyywheeere."_

Keeps buzzing.

_"Just a city boy born and raised in South Detroit..."_

_Keeps_  buzzing.  _Geez_ , know when to give up already.

Puck shoves a hand into his jeans, wrenching the stupid thing out of his pocket, and is halfway to chucking it onto the railways tracks when the music finally dies, sucking Puck's anger with it. Stupid fucking thing. He squeezes it crushingly hard in his fist, slamming it into the grass beside him. As if anyone actually cares.

"Puck."

Puck closes his eyes. Of course; it  _would_  be Kurt.

"Puck--"

"I don't wanna talk to you." Puck snaps, loud enough that the birds startle like he's thrown a firecracker at them. "I don't wanna talk to anyone," He struggles to get the words out; they're clawing at his throat: "will everyone just fucking leave me alone?!"

He turns to spit the last part at the other boy's face, and notices the iphone clutched tightly by his side.

_Whatever._

Puck twists back round, glowering at the grass between his feet.

He can hear the next train clacking in the distance, weirdly organic. It sounds more like a bird, a woodpecker or something, than some clunky, outdated mode of transport.

Puck feels his face twist and pushes the heel of his hand against his eyes.  _Fuck_ , he wants out of this place.

He's not surprised when Kurt doesn't take the hint though, and sits gingerly down next to him. It's the kind of thing Kurt does: he likes playing saviour. But...

"...Want a cigarette?"

 _That_  surprises him. Puck jerks his head out of his arms.

Sure enough, Kurt's holding up a Marlboro Light, although kind of at arm's length, like it might bite him or disintegrate his vocal cords or something.

Puck stares at it.

"You don't smoke." He reminds him slowly.

"'Course not. But Mr Schue does when he's having a really bad day."

Puck plucks the cigarette from Kurt's fingers: "And he gave you that?"

"I kind of borrowed it from his desk."

Great. Now Kurt Hummel's a bigger badass than he is.

"Stole it." Puck corrects, fumbling in his pocket for his lighter.

"No, no, borrowed... I expect you to replace it at a later date."

Puck watches the ends of the paper curl and blacken; takes a drag and stares at the glowing red tip till his eyes water.

Man, there is like  _no_  tar in these things.

He exhales heavily into the clear summer sky.

"...Feel better?" Kurt asks softly after a long couple of minutes drag past.

"Felt better when you weren't talking." Puck snaps, and sees in the corner of his eye how Kurt's hands tighten around his knees.  _Dammit, mouth, shut the fuck up_. Puck exhales again through his nose, savouring the burn in his sinuses. He resists the sudden, dumbass urge to press the glowing tip of the cigarette into his skin and flicks the ash viciously down into the grass instead.

"I don't get how I was meant to  _know_." He eventually pushes out, and the words plaster themselves to his esophagus again, choking him, making his head dizzy: "Like, I'm in high school, all this shit goin' down; dad and mom and ... Quinn and Beth; Schue making out like singing's the only thing that matters in the universe; I bunk off math every lesson for three years, no-one gives a shit; I have a fucking baby, no-one gives a shit; I go to juvie, no-one gives a shit. Like, I suck at school, I know I suck at school, it doesn't... I don't  _get_  it, I don't get why it  _matters_. Then, all at once, it does. 'Cos one fucking geography test and my life's over. It's fucked. It's  _fucked_. How come everyone knew and I didn't?"

He exhales, but it shakes this time, and Puck glowers into the sun as one useless tear slithers down his face.

He can feel Kurt's guilt radiating against his skin from here and feels a painful twists of pleasure:  _good_ ; He should feel guilty. But it doesn't last. They're meant to be friends now. They  _are_  friends... Puck wonders how many times his friends have tried to help him out over the past coupla years and he blew them off without even realising it.

Then, all at once, the train's right there, the clanking way less soothing up close and instead way more terrifying as the engine thrusts through the cut, huge and black and flattening anything that gets in its way. Both boys flinch away from the noise and Puck remembers those old stupid cowboy movies: some screaming heroine tied to the tracks with a steam train bearing down on her, five seconds left to live.

He takes another long drag on the cigarette and feels like the smoke's numbing his insides.

He can kinda relate. 


	14. (978): Rachel and the cat watched us 69 last night. I pretended to be embarrassed the next day... But to be honest I like an audience.

**(978): Rachel and the cat watched us 69 last night. I pretended to be embarrassed the next day... But to be honest I like an audience.**

"...You know I have nothing but wholehearted support for your continued relationship with Kurt, but I suspect it would better suit everyone if you confined the more...  _sexually adventurous_... aspects of it to your own bedroom. Someone's bedroom. Anyone's bedroom. Just not my couch!"

Puck rolls his eyes at the interior of the fridge: "I told you sorry Rach," He repeats, knocking some organic free-range tofu shit aside to grab the yoghurt. "We forgot you were there. Passion of the moment, all that sh...stuff."

Rachel makes a huffing noise. "Still; it's only common practice to take your amorous activities elsewhere when you have flatmates present."

Puck grabs a cucumber and a couple of bananas from the salad drawer as well-- if only to freak Rach out with the subconscious associations-- and hip-checks the door closed.

"Look, Rach, can we just forget about it?" He asks pleadingly. "Kurt'll melt into some giant puddle of shame if he knows you saw us doing... that... And to be honest, it's kinda killing my buzz too, so how about we just fast forward to when I've apologised another dozen times and you've stopped talking about bleaching your eyeballs?"

Rach purses her lips, staring at him with accusation he hasn't felt since the last time his Nana caught him with a bacon cheeseburger.

"...Fine." She agrees finally, then points a finger at Puck's face. "But I still can't get Mimi Marquez to come down from the top of the wardrobe-- I think you've traumatised her. If the vet recommends therapy I'm coming to you for financial assistance."

Reflexively, she reaches past Puck for a glass and fills it full to the brim with tap water. "I'm going to practice." She announces shortly, and marches back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

 _Thank Jesus_. Puck exhales heavily, tossing the healthy stuff into the blender along with the yoghurt and a good dollop of honey. He presses the 'on' button and, as he waits for the resulting sweet, smoothie goodness, can't help but smirk as he remembers how Rach made sure she had a good eyeful of naked cavorting before she buried her face in the cat's furry side and tried to navigate her way back to the living room.

Puck doesn't hear Kurt finally emerge from the bathroom; the blender's making too much noise. The first he realises is when the other boy's hands slip possessively round his waist, and a warm pair of lips press softly against the curve of his throat.

Puck feels that familiar dark curl of  _want_  deep in his belly: "Hey sexy."

"Hey you." Kurt returns. His voice is still rough and patchy from tiredness and-- probably-- overuse of his throat.

"...Smoothies?"

"Kickass hangover cures." Puck corrects, and grins as he feels Kurt's more wan version stretch against his neck.

"You're wonderful." The other boy tells him in a murmur-- Puck recognises the symptoms of a fuck-off-hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-billy-club hangover way too well. "My brain feels the size of a walnut. Shampooing was really difficult this morning."

Puck tries to surreptitiously inhale. The tangy fruity scent of Kurt's shower-gel hangs around him like a wordless invitation, bidding Puck's hands to explore that clean, soft, shower-warmed body.

"Shoulda given me a call," Puck suggests, turning in Kurt's arms, pulling the other boy close against him. "I would've helped you out."

Kurt's mouth curls, amused, and Puck can't help pressing forward, catching his lips gently with his own. He kisses him once, twice; soft, teasing kisses, and Kurt makes the kind of purring, contented little noise that puts the cat to shame and usually has the effect of melting Puck's pants right off. Knowing this, after just a moment Kurt pulls away, glancing warily over Puck's shoulder.

"Where's Rachel?"

Puck shrugs, one hundred percent nonchalance:

"She said, ah... something about having to drop by the studio..?"

"Oh, so we..." Kurt looks scandalously innocent. "Have the place to ourselves?"

Puck grins, slipping his hands easily under the waistband at the back of Kurt's pyjama pants: "Oh yeah..." 


	15. (865): I feel like his penis would have a weird haircut because he does.

**(865): I feel like his penis would have a weird haircut because he does.**

"Stop staring."

"I can't." Kurt hisses back, from the corner of his mouth not pre-occupied with celery. "It's like finding an albino zebra."

"He does have an astonishingly symmetrical head." Tina agrees.

"In defence of Puck's stylist," Artie taps his chin thoughtfully "the mohawk probably enunciated the symmetry. It might have even been on purpose."

"But it did still have the downside of  _being a mohawk_."

"'Course. Hence why no-one's noticed his freakishly symmetrical skull till now; and why all you girls are getting your panties in a knot."

Kurt snaps another bite from his celery: "You think Puckerman has a stylist?"

It odd; how much a hairstyle can change a person. Despite all Noah Puckerman's rippling biceps, lantern-jawed, pouty bad-boyness, Kurt has never found the school stud the least bit attractive. Of course, the fact that the boy's a sadistic caveman with a brain smaller than a thrush egg and the morals of a lobotomised Dynasty character doesn't help. But even in a purely objective, physical sense, Kurt's never really  _got_  why  _Puck_  would be the one to break the lock on Quinn Fabray's chastity panties. Especially over Finn.

But when he came rolling into class this morning, all freshly shorn, no letterman jacket, soulful green eyes peering nervously around the choir-room... Well. Kurt was almost glad he had a baseball cap to tilt down over his face. In one quick glide of the clippers, Noah Puckerman had become infinitely more acceptable daydream fodder.

"Hey Kurt."

Kurt jumps at the sudden voice in his ear, and looks up to find Brittany gazing shyly back at him. Instantly his face heats up again, and it's really not as pleasant as when he was staring at Puck.

"Um, hi Brittany." He clears his throat, trying to find some lower register and ignoring Tina making faces at him across the table.

"Really looking forward to getting to know your couch tonight." The cheerleader informs him coquettishly. "...As long as it's not cowskin. Ever since I turned vegan the cows blame me for lack of boob-action."

Kurt stares. He knows his mouth is hanging open and it's unattractive, but he really... He has no idea.

"I...I--"

"I don't know what that would feel like." Brittany continues obliviously, shrugging: "I always get boob-action. I have really nice boobs."

"Seconded." Artie sticks a hand in the air; Tina's quickly follows.

Kurt squeezes his eyes shut: "That's... really great Britt, I'll see you at eight, okay?"

"'Kay... Bye guys."

Brittany gives the table a little finger-wave as she drifts off, and Kurt just manages to avoid face-planting into his salad.

"...It's like the world world has gotten really, really drunk." Tina sums up wonderingly.

"If you hit that, I'm finding a pier and wheeling myself off the end of it."

"I'm not--" Kurt can't even say it. He honestly doesn't have words to sum up how much he despises himself right now. Instead, he turns back round and resumes staring at Puck's attractively exposed scalp.

Of course, today, the  _last_  thing he really wants to feel is attracted to another guy. That's kind of messing up his whole plan. But, he realises sinkingly, it's not like he can turn it off. He's a good actor sure, and if this'll help him sort stuff out with his dad then...But he can't just  _turn it off_.

"--Oh what the hell, Puck and  _Mercedes_???!" Kurt slams a palm down on the table, staring in horrified disbelief as his usually-best friend sidles up to Puckerman with a smile, and the jock instantly wraps a big, strong, well-muscled arm around her shoulders.

"Really, really drunk." Tina repeats; and Kurt decides the only way he's going to manage to get through tonight is by bringing all his positive visualisation skills into play and pretending Brittany's lips actually belong to Noah Puckerman.

At least, it probably wouldn't take much to convince Brittany to shave her head.


	16. (252):I'm a gay man planning my brothers bachelor party, and he chose someone else to be his best man? I hope they like appltinis and gay clubs. Bastard.

  
**(252):I'm a gay man planning my brothers bachelor party, and he chose someone else to be his best man? I hope they like appltinis and gay clubs. Bastard.**

"This is the best bachelor party  _eveeer_!!"

_What the great holy fiery hell??!_

Kurt scrunches up his face, and gathers all his drunken strength to remove Puck's arm from around his shoulders.

"What one earth are you talking about?" He yells back, squinting into the flare from the disco ball.

" _This_!" Puck waves an expansive arm around the club, and almost clocks some poor hipster-gay in his beautiful pouty lips. "It's awesome! You are some party-planner dude!"

"You realise you're the only person having a good time?" Kurt snaps back, leaning round the jiving moron to see how many of Finn's college buddies are still gritting their teeth and bearing it in the function room.

It's true. Even Kurt isn't having a good time, which is a shame because when he planned this exquisite revenge in his head he pictured himself spending most of the night supping various multi-coloured cocktails from a pyramid of martini glasses and dancing gleefully on tables while Finn sat despondently in a corner and thought about what he'd done. But now, yeah, maybe the guilt's kicking in; but Kurt's starting to realise that maybe being asked to organise the party (and um... the wedding) was a bigger honour than being asked to stand near the alter and NOT DROP the ring, and he really should have just gotten over himself and thrown Finn a bachelor party to remember.

After all, poor boy's going to be living with  _Rachel Berry_  the rest of his life.

Specifically irritating though, is the fact that  _Puck_  was meant to be wallowing in misery by this point, after one-upping Finn's own  ~~step~~ brother to win the coveted Best Man title. Yet here he is, sipping girl-tinis and throwing himself around to some Tiffany dance remix.

"You're not _meant_ to be enjoying yourself!" Kurt informs him angrily. "You're meant to be miserable! You're meant to be cursing Finn's stupid, easily-befuddled brain for making you his best man and begging him to let me back in on the ceremony!"

He probably shouldn't be admitting all this. Dammit. Stupid Appletinis.

"What?" Puck looks genuinely confused for about two seconds, before he just  _has_  to start pop-n-locking again.

"Are you not miserable?" Kurt simplifies futily.

"No way!" Puck exclaims, looking like it's the most crazy thing he's ever heard. "Have you  _seen_  how hot these guys are?" 

Kurt blinks so hard he's in danger of dislodging an eyeball:

" _Pardon monsieur??_ "

"...Don't have any gay friends in LA," Puck explains. "I kinda don't get out on the scene so much over there-- I have fucking  _missed it_!"

Puck says all this without a care in the world, and Kurt tries very  _very_  hard to form some words, but none of them quite get make it out of his lips. He just gapes for a long moment at his avowed arch enemy and feels nervous sweat breaking out along his perfectly-coiffed hairline.

"Puck... Are you telling me you're  _gay_ , Puck?"

"What?" Puck looks at him like that's a completely ridiculous conclusion. "Nah not... That's  _labels_ , man... You really need to get over that." He takes another long slurp of his drink, shimmying his shoulders to the new rhythm emerging. "I get attracted to people I  _like_ ; same as everyone." He explains eventually. "Some of them happen to be guys. Some of them happen to be guys in here."--Kurt blushes, 'cos he's pretty sure Puck just checked out his ass-- "But mostly, in straight clubs they just look at you weird if you start busting out to Madonna, and I fucking  _love this song_!"

Puck starts jigging round to 'Like A Prayer' and Kurt just stares helplessly, feeling like he's been punched in the stomach with a big pink glittery fist.

"Can this be  _my_  bachelor party...?" He asks nobody in particular, eyes raking down the hitherto inaccessible expanse of Puck's chest. Surely God is not feeling this generous?

"So, you got any other surprises planned for him?" Puck asks, planting his empty glass down and digging in his pocket for some more dollars. He looks totally oblivious to Kurt's shell-shock.

"Um..." Kurt bites his lip, feeling pained. He's going to need another alcoholic beverage soon: "I  _may_  have organised him a lap-dance..." He admits.

" _Seriously_?!" Puck looks like he's just dive-bombed into a surprise mountain of gold coins and double-stuffed Oreos.

Kurt nods unhappily and adds: "...With a drag queen."

"...Best. Bachelor party. EVER!!!"


	17. (925): I love how understanding people are when they hear we first hooked up getting high and watching nature shows.

**(925): I love how understanding people are when they hear we first hooked up getting high and watching nature shows.**

"She's not gonna leave him." Puck says, very sure.

"But she'll die if she stays."

"Moms don' just leave their kids." Puck argues, eyes glued to the heart-wrenching sight in front of him. "They don't." Elephants are big on the whole 'family' thing, right?

Beside him, Kurt makes no answer; simply curls his fingers tight into the sleeve of Puck's shirt, and Puck obediently shifts down to press their shoulders closer.

On-screen, the baby elephant rests its head against the dusty ground, too weak to walk any further.

"...Shit." Puck croaks, and presses his knuckles into his mouth.

"She won't leave him." Kurt repeats Puck's words. "She won't. She's going to stay, look:" he nods at the screen "she's going to stay..."

Puck lets out a shaky breath, moving his arm so Kurt can snuggle under it. The other boy fits easily against his side, limp and warm from weed and sleepiness. Puck presses his nose against the top of Kurt's head, and really appreciates the thickness of his hair:

"...You're hot."

Dammit, he meant to say 'warm'.

"Yeah." Kurt agrees, and flinches against Puck's side as the mom-elephant's legs buckle and she kneels beside her calf: " _Oh no_... Hold me Puck."

Puck thinks he's got this covered: "...I'm already holding you."

"...Hold me better."

Puck obliges, slipping further down the couch and letting Kurt curl against his chest.

The baby elephant has stopped moving much at all now, it's silly, ropey tail drawing limp spirals in the dusty ground. Puck can feel his breath getting heavier, and likes when Kurt's hand shifts and starts grazing soothingly up and down his thigh.

"...Oh god." the other boy whispers, hiding one side of his face against Puck's chest. Puck can feel it too, and wraps Kurt up in the circle of his arms, squeezing him close.

The savannah's too hot; far too hot for anything to live there, especially something so tiny. Puck feels his eyes start to sting, as the baby struggles to keep his open. The flies are already there, buzzing against the its grey, leathery hide.

"Nature's a bitch." Puck grunts, and hears Kurt sniff in agreement.

The baby elephant takes its final, rattling breath, and Puck flinches from Kurt's fingernails digging into his leg.

It's probably the saddest thing he's seen, but Puck is  _so_  not ashamed of the tears trickling down his cheeks. This is life; this is fuckin'  _life_ , right here, and no kid should die without his mom. Even in the savannah. When he's an elephant.

"Hey." Kurt's voice is whispery and soft by his ear, "Hey." The boy shifts, and Puck glances up at the feel of tender fingertips against his face. "You're crying... Don' cry."

Puck turns his head; finds Kurt's big watery blue eyes gazing pleadingly back at him.

"I'm not." He tells him, lying blatantly.

Kurt isn't deterred: "You are." He argues, and brushes a finger under Puck's eye; it comes away wet, and Kurt exhibits it in front of Puck's face. "...Stupid."

Looking at him, Puck realises Kurt's eyelashes are wet too; sticking together and glistening. He feels a sudden tug in his stomach that wants him to kiss those tears away.

But he doesn't have the chance because-- as if he's a mind reader-- Kurt's pulling himself up Puck's body, and his soft, warm lips are pressed against Puck's eyelids.

Puck tightens his hold in the back of Kurt's sweater, breath trembling as the other boy softly kisses his tears away.

"Stupid nature..." Puck murmurs, breathing heavily against Kurt's neck; he feels the other boy nod:

"Stupid nature."

Then, tentatively, Kurt's lips find his; and maybe it's the weed, but Puck has never felt anything so perfect. 


	18. (+61): Nah, I'm just going to keep fucking him until he realizes we're perfect for each other.

  
**(+61): Nah, I'm just going to keep fucking him until he realizes we're perfect for each other.**

Puck stabs the doorbell, one leg bouncing nervously as he paces the Hummel's doorstep. He doesn't need to wait long though; the thing's not even stopped ringing when Kurt's there, pulling the door ajar:

"Hey--"

He looks beautiful, and Puck's brain stopped functioning a while back, picturing their afternoon together, picturing being alone; remembering the angles and curves and tight, strong muscles of Kurt's body; the scent of his skin; how he fits against Puck without shame or fear and without holding anything back, without teasing (except when it's fun); without  _lying_...

Puck pulls Kurt to him, kissing him hard, pushing them both back inside the door and kicking it shut behind them.

"Puck--" Kurt breaths, almost tripping over the carpet as Puck propels them towards the nearest flat surface. "Puck, come on;  _Puck_ -"

But Puck just wraps his arms tighter around the other boy, tugging Kurt's shirt halfway up his back, palms roaming possessively up the firm expanse of skin. He feels Kurt's hands around his face, standing on his toes to kiss him harder, forcing their bodies ruthlessly close.

" _Kurt_ ,baby..." Puck grabs for his ass, grinding desperately up against him, cock throbbing already with all the shit banging about his skull and his need to get rid of it, the best, the only  _real_  way he knows how. His fingers grip the hard flesh of Kurt's thigh and he can feel the tension coil in Kurt's muscles, like he's genuinely considering climbing Puck like an oak tree.

" _Puck_ ," Kurt gasps out, and all at once Puck feels a hand pushing against his chest. "Puck, stop, okay, just--"

Puck stops. It takes everything he has in every inch of him, but he stops, breathing raggedly, refusing to uncurl his fingers from the Kurt's pockets. The other boy's face is pink, and it makes his eyes look even bluer. Puck wants to keep kissing him so bad that it aches.

"What?" He snaps, and curses himself for it. He doesn't  _mean_  to snap; it's just, sometimes, when he feels like this-- when everything's too much and all at once-- he doesn't have words. Kurt always has words; Kurt's fucking  _drowning_  in words. But Puck's vocabulary clams up; the world and all the crap in it is too much for his head and he can only communicate through skin; skin touching skin; lips, whimpers, hands, teeth, legs, gasps, pounding heat and no thoughts and being everything to one person for one moment and forgetting everything absolutely  _everything_  else.

He drops his gaze, glowering at the bottom buttons on Kurt's shirt. Absently, he starts undoing them until Kurt covers his hand with his own.

"Thought everyone was out." Puck murmurs.

"They are." Kurt returns, not distracted by Puck's dodging. "...What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Puck moves closer, fingers playing at the outside of Kurt's thighs. "Nothin' just..." He smiles a wretched little smile, inhaling the scent of Kurt's cologne and feeling his heart thud a little faster. "Just  _need_  you babe..." He glances up; finds Kurt gazing back at him: "Yeah?"

Kurt looks at him, tiny shadow in the middle of forehead where his eyebrows furrow. Puck knows it sounds like a booty call; he knows that turning up at someone's house and trying to rip their clothes off before they've even said hello isn't always the way to do things. But Kurt's different. Kurt  _gets_  him, even when he tries to push him away, to change him, to save him,  _whatever_ ; he gets him.

"Kurt--"

"S'okay." Kurt shushes him, leaning across to press another soft kiss to his mouth. Carefully, Puck feels the other boy slip a hand into his.

He leads him through to the living room, pulling Puck down on top of him as he lays back on the couch. Puck's brain is just white noise as he works Kurt's jeans off and his own, and when he's finally inside him, when Kurt's body is all around him and they're finally,  _perfectly_  connected, Puck wonders why he ever tries to make anything else work; why this isn't just  _everything_ ; why he cares what anyone else thinks of him, why he even _tries_  to make Quinn happy, 'cos it's never going to feel like  _this_.

Puck whispers his lover's name over and over again and Kurt hangs onto him and leaves nail-crescents in Puck's arms because he knows it won't last. 

 


	19. (+61): Nah, I'm just going to keep fucking him until he realizes we're perfect for each other.

  
**N.B: Continuation of yesterday's**

**(+61): Nah, I'm just going to keep fucking him until he realizes we're perfect for each other.**

They lie there for a long time afterwards, and Kurt closes his eyes and listens to the pattern of their breathing until it almost sounds like music. Puck is quiet now, face nuzzled into the curve of Kurt's throat, and Kurt-- wordless, worn-out and caught in some unnatural position he can't force his limbs to move from-- is content to simply trace his fingertips soothingly along the thick stripe of Puck's mohawk and wait for his brain-cells to reboot. He wouldn't care if they didn't, in all honesty.

He's almost--  _almost_ \-- lulled the both of them into some blissful post-coital nap-time, when he feels Puck let out a weary groan against his skin:

" _...Shit._ "

"What?"

But Puck doesn't answer. He just turns his head away from Kurt's fingers and, after a moment, pushes himself painfully back up onto his knees. Kurt bites his lip, catching the whimper of pain as Puck pulls out of him. It  _hurts_. But Puck doesn't seem to notice, doesn't apologise; just shuffles awkwardly to the end of the sofa and starts rooting about in the jeans still caught around his ankle for his cell-phone.

(Kurt had heard it go off too; but in the heat of the moment he'd kind of hoped Puck hadn't).

Suddenly exposed, and cold without the warm, reassuring weight of Puck's body splayed across him, Kurt pulls himself back up to sitting, tugging his shirt back across his body:

"...Is it Quinn?"

But he already knows the answer, and Puck doesn't bother giving it to him-- no-one else makes Puck's face look like that.

"...She wants me to go babysit Beth with her." He reports flatly.

_Oh_. Kurt's eyes skip instantly to Puck's fingers: he's already typing a reply, and 'no' doesn't take so many characters.

Quinn. Queen Quinn. ice-queen, Prom Queen, head cheerleader, martyred teen mother, daddy's little princess, _everyone's_  first choice--

"...Don't go." Kurt says, before he can stop himself. It seems to slip out between his teeth and he instantly regrets it. But Puck doesn't even look up.

Something snaps in his chest, and Kurt rests his hand on the arm of the sofa, yanking himself up onto his knees so he can close his lips softly around the lobe of Puck's ear:

"Puck."

Puck stops typing; gives a tiny, shaky exhale.

"Puck, just stay." Kurt whispers. He presses his fingers to Puck's jaw, and the other boy's head turns easily, letting Kurt's lips find his once more. Kurt squeezes his eyes tight closed, because it's the kind of kissing that rips his heart out.

After a second, Puck's fingers stroke clumsily against Kurt's neck, like he wants to hold tighter but can't summon the courage. " _Kurt_." He whispers as their lips slip apart, and Kurt presses a hand to the other boy's face, grazing his stubble with fond fingers, keeping him close. "Stay." He repeats, trying so hard to keep desperation out of his voice. He forces his mouth into a smile. "Come on, we were gonna watch Finn's  _Firefly_  box-set, remember? You were gonna explain to me why Joss Whedon owns your soul..."

He leans in; kisses Puck once more, but he knows the moment's passed. When he opens his eyes again, Puck can only hold his gaze for a moment before it slips back to his phone.

"It's  _Beth_." He explains simply, words tight with unhappiness. And Kurt knows he has nothing that can win against that.

 


	20. (203): He told me he felt like he should say thank you and as a prize i could keep anything from his room that i wanted.

**(203): He told me he felt like he should say thank you and as a prize i could keep anything from his room that i wanted.**

"Where is it?"

"What?" Kurt asks it so innocently, it's almost like Puck didn't spend the majority of Saturday night fucking him into his bedroom floor.

But Puck is not fooled. He knows Kurt Hummel's a wily bee-atch.

"You  _know_." He leans in closer. "You know what I mean and I know you took it, so c'mon, don't be an ass."

"Strange, I seem to remember you quite enjoying--"

"-- _Dude_!" Puck pops his head back up, eyes flicking panickedly around the hallway.

"Wow, paranoia really isn't one of your best looks, you know that?" Kurt comments dryly. "I'm getting quite turned off here."

"Stop messing around will you?" Puck hisses back, pressing in a little closer, desperate that no-one overhears. Not that it's all that helpful, being this close to Kurt again. It can't help but trigger all sorts of pleasurable memories in his head, like some porny version of that old-school Minsweeper game.

Kurt seems to know exactly what's going through Puck's head, because he leans his hip against his locker, closing the distance between their bodies to a negligible half-inch.

"You said I could have a prize." Kurt repeats Puck's drunken offer back at him.

Pucks sighs: "I know--"

"--Anything I wanted," Kurt continues "for being, and I quote: 'your experimental homosexual.'"

Puck stares at him: "I... I said that?"

"Oh yeah." Kurt nods. "...Y'know, it was really quite fun to hear; all those syllables after the number of beers you shot-gunned."

Puck blinks. "So you took my KY?"

"So I took your KY." Kurt smiles angelically.

Puck cannot believe he's slept with someone whose logic is as ridiculous as his is.

"It's not like it's gonna stop me having sex." He blusters "It's not gonna stop me having sex with people who  _aren't you_ \--"

"--What, you think I'm stealing your sex aids because I'm jealous of your right hand?"

"--Damn straight I think you're jealous."

Kurt looks at him strangely for a second; and Puck thinks back over that last part.

"Maybe I just took it so I could enjoy myself in your absence." Kurt suggests with a carefree little shrug.

Again with the porn-minesweeper.

" _Kurt_..." Puck pleads, and it comes out way more like a groan than he means. "C'mon, look...I know it's dumb, I just... I really like that one, it works real good and I... I use it all the time so can I... Can I have it back?"

Kurt stares at him for a moment, as if he's waiting for more.

"...Please?" Puck adds.

Kurt slams his locker closed:

"Go to the store." He suggests "--You can get any flavour you want, y'know they're very good now at catering for all sorts of tastes..."

"--But my Raspberry Sensations--"

"--You want your Raspberry Sensations back?" Kurt interrupts, raising his eyebrows and pressing a finger into Puck's chest: "My house, tonight, 8 o'clock; bring chocolate." He leans closer, wickedness dancing in his eyes: "I have a craving."

Puck stares at him. "Y'know, this is an awful lotta trouble to go to just to get me to have sex with you again. You were good. I'd do you again in a minute."

"Yeah." Kurt agrees, a little ruefully. "But the chance to have you wrapped around my raspberry-flavoured, extra-lubricated little finger?  _Sooo_  entertaining."


	21. (313): White coat. Heels.

**(313): White coat. Heels.**

"Where did you get  _these_?"

"Oh; Dalton's wardrobe department owed me a favour."

Puck raises a sceptical eyebrow, and Kurt strikes a  _Vogue_  pose:

"For being fabulous, of course. Do you know how depressingly conformist that place is without me?"

"I can guess." Puck drawls, and winces as he crams his chunky man-toes into one size 11 black strappy stiletto.

"Hell  _fuck_ , you expect me to walk in these or something?"

"Don't make me show you the Gaga heels again." Kurt warns, and Puck shivers at his memory of those ten-inch monstrosities. "But yeah, it does take some getting used to." The other boy concedes. "There's a technique. You have to walk from the hip..." He climbs back to his feet so he can demonstrate, strutting a few catwalk steps around his bedroom. "See? Instead of the knee."

Puck gives it a shot, tottering a few tentative Bambi steps towards the mirror. Call him a simpleton, but he always kind of figured walking from his  _feet_  was the way forward.  _Fuck_ , his ankles are not made for this crap.

Behind him, Kurt looks similarly unconvinced, tapping a fingernail against his teeth.

"...On the plus side:" He offers, perking up. "your calves look  _astounding_."

Puck narrows his kohl-lined eyes.

"Hummel. You got a thing for fishnets?"

"I have absolutely  _no thing_  for fishnets." Kurt replies, very definitely: "Arms." Puck obediently lifts his elbows, so Kurt can bang a couple of extra stitches into the belt-loop on the side of his lab-coat: "In case it escaped your attention, I'm attracted to  _boys_." Kurt reminds him flatly. "That's boys, who look like boys, with penises. You're a man dressed as a woman dressed as cheap hooker."

"Hey, hey, watch with the judging." Puck protests smirkingly. "It takes a lotta money to look this cheap."

"Says the guy who robbed a drag queen for Chantilly lace... There:" Puck looks up again at the feel of Kurt's hands cinching briefly around his waist. "Can you breathe?"

"--I--"

"--'Cos if you can then we're not doing it right." Kurt meets Puck's startled eyes in the mirror and winks.

Puck stares at himself. It's the first time he's put the whole outfit together: the wig, the coat, the shoes; and getting Kurt's input has totally paid off. At least his make-up isn't leaking halfway down his face this time. He does feel kinda like Frankenstein's monster-- but in a freakishly hot, sexually-ambiguous kind of way, obviously.

"Uh, so, this is kinda a dumb question." Puck scrunches up his nose; tries to reach a hand round to the back of his own shoulders: "But how do I get out of this corset without, like, dislocating something?"

"It's a  _basque_ ," Kurt corrects "and I really doubt you'll be able to get out of it yourself."

Puck gives him the fish-eye: "I'm seeing some kind of ginormous flaw in this plan..."

"...Well, you should feel sorry for the centuries-worth of females who've been poured into these things. Of course, lingerie like this was invented when every well-to-do young woman had a lady's maid following her around bent on obeying her every whim."

Sounds fair. Puck glances hopefully at Kurt:

"Don't suppose you picked me up a lady's maid to go with the outfit?"

"Sorry, your invisible fee didn't cover much by way of waiting staff." Kurt informs him ruefully. "...But, y'know, if you're sleeping over at ours afterwards I can get you out of it."

Puck stares; and watches with amusement as Kurt's face turns almost exactly the same shade of scarlet as Puck's lipstick.

"Oh you know I didn't- I didn't mean- not like--" His spluttering is priceless "--oh  _shut up_ , in your  _dreams_  Puckerman!"

Puck smirks, dodging away from Kurt's violent flailing hand and almost toppling off his stilletos.

Yup. Rocky Horror 40th anniversary gig is a go. Fuck, but he makes one  _sweet_  transvestite.


	22. Home safe. Psyche shattered. Still rolling. In love with the morrocan rug in the living room.

**Home safe. Psyche shattered. Still rolling. In love with the morrocan rug in the living room.**

"Oh  _fuuuuck_..."

Kurt does not like swearing. Kurt finds swearing unbearably uncouth. But sometimes, just very sometimes, there is not one word that suits the situation better. Kurt squeezes his eyes gratefully closed, wonky grin stretching the corners of his lips. Mmmm, he loves soft furnishings; soft furnishings make the world a welcoming pretty happy place.

For a long minute, Kurt thinks about stretching out his hand, and eventually he does, laying his warm palm against the thick coloured wool. Burgundy, purple, emerald...Mmmm, these are the best colours. It looks beautiful; all snuggly and gorgeous and... snuggly.

Kurt burrows his cheek closer into the shag-pile. His skin feels very numb (maybe the tequila) and the rough wool strokes tenderly against it, soothing it, telling him to stay, reminding him why he fought over buying this Morroccan beauty in the first place.

It might be half an hour later; more likely three or four, when Kurt really becomes conscious again. He remembers bare feet; he remembers smiling weakly at familiar toes and hairy ankles; maybe there were legs attached. But the next time he opens his eyes, his wonderful  _wonderful_  boyfriend is there, his face a few inches away from Kurt's, cheek pressed against the shag-pile, heavy-eyed and smiling wanly. Kurt wants to kiss him.

He tries. But all he manages to do is graze Puck's neck briefly with his fingers and face-plant once more into their lovely lovely living room rug.

"Rough night babe..?" The other boy asks.

"You're so hot." Kurt replies happily, wondering why that 's' keeps getting stuck in his throat.

"Yeah." Puck agrees, modest as always. "And you're  _wasted_."

"Was a really good party." Kurt explains, pouting a little bit. God, this rug feels amazing. He smooths his hand over the rough wool, sucking in an excited breath at the sexy feel of grippy fabric scratching his skin. He smooths his hand the other way.  _Mmmm_ , good.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah..." Kurt frowns a bit as Puck closes his hand over his, stopping the sweeping movement of his arm. Not fair. "...Missed you though."

"Really?"

"'Course." Kurt assures him. But he really wishes Puck would let him go. "I like the rug Puck."

"What?"

"I like the rug. It's pretty don't you think?" Classy. Sexy. Kurt could lie here forever. His legs have never felt so heavy.

"You mean you don't wanna come to bed..?"

Puck shifts closer, slipping his hand around Kurt's waist, his body a long stripe of warm against Kurt's. Mmm, he feels...lovely.  _Lovely_. But still:

"Stay here."

"It's cold stud."

"S'not. It's warm with you." Kurt gathers all his strength and brushes his nose briefly against Puck's; breathing contentedly against the other boy's mouth. "Love this carpet. We should stay here."

"On the floor?"

"Mmm."

"You wanna sleep on the floor?"

"I love the colours. If you're really close.,.." Kurt demonstrates, rotating his head down until his eye is level with the multicoloured wool; with the scraggly, welcoming forest of fuzziness. "It looks like Mercury. Like Mercury looks."

Kurt's eyes flutter a bit, at the feel of Puck's hand slipping further into the small of his back; his thumb grazing fond circles against his hot prickly skin:

"Ever been on Mercury?"

"Yes." Kurt answers, giving his gorgeous boyfriend a bit of the side-eye. Sarky bugger. "I had tequila shots."

"Oh god."

"Felt like Mercury."

Kurt grins, feeling Puck's arms tighten protectively around him, gathering him against his broad, safe chest. Wow, he loves his boyfriend. He loves him  _fuckloads_. Kurt presses the side of his face gratefully into the hollow of Puck's throat.

Then, slowly, he feels Puck nudging him over, and before his numb, heavy limbs realise it, he's spread-eagled limply across the rug, Puck a warm, heavy, welcoming weight on top of him.

"Mmmm." Kurt keeps his eyes closed. still enjoying the feel of the rug against his skin; and now, the feel of Puck pressing down against him.

"You gonna stay with me babe?" Kurt enquires blurrily, even as Puck's mouth nuzzles against his neck.

"Dunno. You like the carpet?"

"I  _love_  the carpet." Kurt proclaims gleefully, and breathes a shuddering breath as Puck's hands trace the long veins of his forearms, finding their way to the end of Kurt's fingertips, flattening their bodies against one another.

"You love me?" Puck asks again, grinning sleepily against Kurt's lips. Kurt's not sure, but he's fairly positive it's past Puck's bedtime. He manages to force his eyes half open.

"I love you." He grins back, taking great care over every word. It's still quite new for them. He likes saying it.

He humms contentedly as Puck's lips find his, pressing softly. "More than the carpet?" Puck whispers.

Kurt screws up his nose; tries to fondle the shag-pile once more, but finds his wrists caught in Puck's stronger grip.

"I don't wanna get up." He admits carefully, leaning up to brush Puck's nose once more with his. Ouch, maybe that was harder than he'd intended. "Stay with me babe? If I get up I'm gonna be sick."

It's true, he realises all of a sudden. That's why he likes it here: nice and steady... His stomach is very churny.

"...Mmm, sexy." Puck comments dryly. But one of his hands drifts up, cupping briefly against Kurt's face. The touch sends sparks of pleasure rattling through Kurt's skin.

"Stay with me babe." Kurt repeats plaintively, mirroring Puck's touch.

The other boy's eyes roll, glancing at the darkened ceiling; the watery-grey Santa Monica dawn filtering through their blinds.

"'Cos you want the carpet?"

"I want you." Kurt corrects. "...On the carpet."

"Ah, well: in that case..." Puck mutters, burying his lips once more against Kurt's neck, making Kurt's fingers twist into the rough wool as he pushes his t-shirt up up up.

Their world is amazing. Even the floor. Gosh, he fucking loves this carpet.


	23. (828): I have come to realize that my purpose in life is less musical and more as a filter of alcohol into water.

**(828): I have come to realize that my purpose in life is less musical and more as a filter of alcohol into water.**

Puck doesn't shift until his alcohol-insultated brain realises the reason the right hand side of his body's so warm is 'cos Kurt's got off his high-horse and laid down next to him.

"Woah," He protests blearily. "Mm not that hungover."

"In your very, very sexy, glitter-coated daydreams Puckerman." Kurt answers airily, and Puck forces himself to twist back round, squinting at the other boy through swollen eyelids.

"Go 'way." He says, as poisonously as he can manage.

Kurt just gives him a sharp little grimace.

"Nope. My house. And I choose to ignore your pathetic look-at-me-ness and stage an intervention instead."

Puck reaches out a hand, nudging blindly at Kurt's hip and trying to push him off the couch:

"M not an  _alcoholic_."

Kurt clings on, refusing to be shifted, and Puck has a weird memory of trying to get his nana's cat off the Ottoman like this.

"Right, and you can tell that to my dad when he gets home and wants to know what you've done with his secret stash of Jameson."

"He shouldn't be drinking it anyway." Puck snarks Kurt's words from last night back at him, and the other boy makes a face:

"At least he's  _legal_."

Puck stops prodding, tired from the exertion and getting dizzy again. He plants his face into the squished-up pillow Finn's mom leant him.

His eyes are starting to sting in the corners.

"Gotta stick to wha' your'e good at." he mumbles bitterly into the fabric.

"What?"

Puck lifts his mouth off the pillow. "Gotta stick to what you're good at." He repeats and treats the other boy to a side-eyed glower before his neck collapses once more.

The silence feels fluffy and cottony around Puck's head, seeping into the hollows and angles of his skin. The warmth of Kurt's body is half weirdly-welcoming and half a gut-wrenching reminder of all the other warm bodies he's squeezed up next to the last month or whatever it is. Fucking  _pool-cleaning_. He just wants to go back to sleep. He wants to go to sleep and forget about being a total fuck-up for a couple more alcohol-soaked hours.

A drum beat starts thumping against his temples, squeezing his brain between on-beats. Grunting, Puck throws an arm over his eyes.

"Stop flailing, you like this one." Kurt chastises, prodding a finger into Puck's exposed abdomen.

Huh?

Puck doesn't understand. But he tries to concentrate a bit harder, and after a stupidly long time he realises that drumbeat hurts so much is 'cos it's an  _actual_  drumboat. From a song. On the stereo.

" _Where it began: I can't begin to knowing..."_

 _Oh god_. Puck recognises it in an instant, forcing his teeth into his forearm as feelings surge up his throat.

_"But then I know it's growing strong."_

Kurt's fingers are tapping idly against his hip.

"I'm not a huge Neil Diamond fan." He explains lightly."But I remember you singing this. It was the first song you solo'd in Glee, right?"

Puck nods, leaving sharp red teethmarks in his own skin.

"I really wanted to hate you when you joined." The other boy confides, as if he hasn't noticed how hard Puck's fighting to keep his tears from trickling down his cheeks and into Kurt's hair. "I mean I  _did_  hate you. Alot. But I wanted everyone else to hate you. I wanted you to have a voice like, I don't know...a bulldog with glandular fever, or, like, Ewan McGregor..."

Puck sniffs hard, trying to make it sound like a cold. Man, Kurt is such a dork. And Ewan McGregor's not bad in that movie.

"...And then you come  _swanning_  in, with your  _guitar_... And you sing this  _stupid_  song, and every girl in that choir room's throwing their underwear at you."

 _Yeah_  they were, Puck remembers fuzzily. He remembers Rachel's big brown starry eyes; Quinn's adoration quickly turning suspicious. Yeah, they wanted him. He was  _on fire_.

Puck swallows back the lump in his throat. "What about you?" he asks.

"...What  _about_  me?" Kurt replies, with an innocent little smile, and Puck snorts, rolling his eyes.

_"Sweet Caroline, good times never felt so good..."_

He prises his eyelids apart, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. The white plaster is still kinda too bright; but the pain that shoots through his brain isn't as bad as it was a few minutes ago.

 _"Bah bah bah..."_  Kurt sings the echo part cheerfully beside his ear, and Puck feels a grin threatening despite himself; this song is dumb as anything.

"LA sucked." He admits heavily, and feels Kurt's fingers stop tapping against his skin.

"...I didn't...I don't know..." Puck clears his throat, clearing out some of the irony. "I didn't  _fit_  there."

It feels like choking up razor blades to admit it. Puck thought he could get by anywhere.  _Everywhere_. But the reality was, getting to LA he fitted  _too_  good. There were twenty of him in every bar; at every pool-side. And better; fitter; more handsome; more willing...

Puck still doesn't blink; but in his peripheral vision sees Kurt glance at him, eyes searching.

_"Good times never felt so good..."_

Puck sees the offer in Kurt's face before he says it, and feels like his insides melt with relief:

"Come to New York with me." He suggests, fiddling nervously with his own fingers. "Me and Rach...No-one fits in there... We'll be fine."


	24. (616): At some point tonight the bad ideas in my head became bad decisions that happened outside my head

  
**(616): At some point tonight the bad ideas in my head became bad decisions that happened outside my head**

"You okay..?" Puck asks quietly, feeling his lips numbs as the words pass them.

It's a routine to him; a question he's asked a hundred times, in rooms that look just like this, in houses that don't belong to him, when he's been just long enough staring wide-awake at the ceiling that everyone else should be asleep.

He doesn't really know what he's doing, but it's okay: that's routine too. Tugging Kurt back against his his body as they watched the movie was normal and easy; they're friends now, and although he felt the other boy's few seconds of panic, he relaxed soon enough, and their bodies melded easily together as the story unravelled in front of them. Finn didn't even notice. And Kurt kept Puck snickering with his dry-as-a-bone commentary track so that neither of them really clocked it when Puck's fingers slipped a little lower and began grazing the tiny sliver of skin between the waistband of Kurt's jeans and his t-shirt.

Kurt pauses just a second too long in replying, and Puck hears multitudes in that.

"...Just. Neeeded a drink." He explains in a murmur, irises reflecting the vague dazzle of the streetlamps through the living room window.

Puck's lips make an 'oh' shape, and he watches Kurt time-out on the staring and sweep through to the kitchen, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his tank top. His fingers brush reflexively over the light-switch; but he doesn't hit it, clearly used to finding his way round in the dark, and Puck pulls the spare duvet away from his legs, head filled with the pounding of his heart against his ribcage.

He pauses in the kitchen doorway, just for a second; but Kurt expected him to follow and doesn't twitch. He's gazing into the fridge, face all lit up in odd, jarring electric daylight.

Puck tries to stop breathing so hard. He sounds like a fucking dragon.

"Kurt?"

Kurt stops instantly, placing the milk back on the counter. His other hand is clenched tight around the fridge door handle:

"Mmm?"

But Puck waits until he turns around. His eyes widen a bit and Puck supposes he didn't expect him to be right there, so close he can feel the atoms of heat dancing between their bodies.

Kurt passes his tongue nervously over his lips and Puck's heart's stopped thumping now. Instead, it feels like it's suspended in a block of ice somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

"Earlier." He murmurs, staring at Kurt's eyes. "You flirting with me?"

It's not really a question, and Puck feels an unexpected surge of terror as Kurt swallows heavily, lips thinning like someone who's really, really used to accusation. He crosses his arms.

"I was being  _nice_  to you." He replies, agonisingly careful.

Puck stares at him. He tries to take a breath in, but it gets stuck in his nostrils. His head's starting to spin, that gorgeous heat prickling all across his chest, and all he can make himself do is shrug and admit in a whisper like the words don't want to leave his mouth:

"I liked it."

The next moment feels like forever. Then, Kurt-- 'cos Kurt's the brave one-- takes half a step closer and presses trembling fingertips to the flat plane of Puck's stomach, watching his hands like he has absolutely no control over them. And Puck knows his move. Reflexively, he slips a finger under Kurt's jaw and tilts his chin back up and-- before he can think-- covers Kurt's mouth with his, kissing him like he's trying to pour his soul into him.

He almost dies from the eroticism of it. He's not allowed to do this. He's not  _allowed_  to kiss other boys. He doesn't do this. This is Kurt's territory, not his. Fear spikes in his stomach and he has to break away almost immediately to suck in a breath and try to stop shaking. But Kurt curls cool hands round his face, shushing him, pressing soft kisses to the corner of his lips; and Puck lets himself go against Kurt's caresses, trying desperately hard to figure out the last time it felt like  _this_ , and only dredging up some vague memories of being fourteen and in love with some nubile blonde who was making eyes at his best friend.

 


	25. (845): You. Me. Frosting and a bed. Lets do this.

**(845): You. Me. Frosting and a bed. Lets do this.**

A fresh bout of retching echoes round the bathroom tiles, and Kurt winces.

"Babe?" He enquires tentatively. No answer. To be fair, Puck probably can't hear him over the sound of his unhappiness. "Babe?--"

"--I'm fine!" The other boy croaks in answer, and then emits kind of low, gutteral groan like a bull being punched in the throat.

"Are you being sick?" Kurt asks, fairly needlessly.

He hears Puck gasp weakly against the porcelain. "I just need... a minute... to, ah--"

Then the retching starts again. Oh fabulous.

Kurt's head collapses back against the pillows, his nose wrinkling at the feel of more choclate frosting melting and dripping tickilishly down the side of his ribcage. It's official. Valentine' Day 2012 has overshot sexy by miles and landed somewhere not far away from horrifically disappointing.

And it had all started out so well...

In lieu of  _actual_  Valentine's presents, Kurt had decided to shelve his usual romantic inclinations and instead take a shot at pandering to his boyfriend's slightly more...  _feral_  tastes. He decided to make him up a little gift, a few of Puck's favourite things, that he could enjoy seperately-- or-- indeed, in tandem: chocolate frosting, fluffy handcuffs and well... Kurt.

so. Puck divested them both of their clothes in record time. That was a given. When Kurt let Puck pull his arms up above his head and click the handcuffs around his wrists, he thought they were both gonna come from sheer anticipation. Then, Puck brought out the frosting.

Kurt gasped when it first dripped onto his skin: so  _cold_ , it made his whole body jerk, and Puck grinned like he's just discovered the secret of eternal orgasm and reached out a hand to grip his hip and hold him down.

It felt mind-blowing. The cool smoothness of the chocolate; the rough, hot pad of Puck's tongue as he concentrated on sensuously licking away every last stain of it. Kurt found himself pulling against his handcuffs just to feel Puck's mouth chasing over his skin; his fingers gripping tighter around his body and pulling him back. It felt like  _hours_ , Kurt with his eyes closed and almost asleep, high on endorphins and seratonin and  _sugar_ , when Puck reached up his body to kiss him with warm, chocolate-slick lips.

But then-- as so much does in Kurt's life-- it all went a bit wrong. Maybe it  _had_  been hours, Puck drawing intricate swirls over the pale, welcoming expanse of his boyfriend's body, and leaning down to lick and suck the evidence away. But, all at once, Puck seems to freeze; his hands gripping  _too_  tight around Kurt's hip-- and Kurt does his best to prise himself out of semi-consciousness, but before he can manage it, Puck's dismounted Kurt's thighs and is stumbling across the room to the en-suite.

Then the retching started.

There should be warnings on the packet, Kurt reflects resignedly, tugging futily at his bonds. Excessive consumption warnings. But then, he should know Puck can never resist chocolate frosting.

Suddenly, Kurt's rattled out of his quiet despair by an urgent knocking at the door: "Kurt? Uh... you alright in there? You sound kinda--"

"--Don't even  _think_  about coming in!" Kurt orders, feeling his whole body light up from embarassment just at the thought.  _God_ , Finn picks the singularly most awkward times to be a concerned big brother.

Kurt tries again to wrench his hands out of the cuffs. He can practically hear Finn's indecisive shuffling other side of the door; an ominous rattle of the doorknob.

"...Uh, you...Everything ok?"

"Of course everything's ok!!!" Kurt repeats, desperately upbeat: "Why would it not be ok!?" Yeah, he's handcuffed naked to his own bed with melted chocolate dripping onto his bedsheets and his boyfriend upchucking in the toilet. "Trust me, you  _do not_  want to be in here!"

"Who's shouting?" Puck croaks again from the bathroom, before his words get overtaken by another gut- churning splatter of vomit.

Oh  _god_. Worst. Valentine's day. ever.

"Kurt, I don't--"

"NO!!!" Kurt shrieks as the door swings open.

No-one could've predicted the knock-on effect. But suffice to say, a six-foot Frankenteen collapsing in shock at the top of the landing is bound to bring people running.

(Kurt never, ever lets Puck handcuff him to anything ever again.)


	26. (859): I am on a roof. I'm not sure which one, or why, or how, but I am on a roof and you should come get me. I can see info classrooms!

  
**(859): I am on a roof. I'm not sure which one, or why, or how, but I am on a roof and you should come get me. I can see info classrooms!**

"Finn! Finn, what the  _hell_  are you doing?" Kurt hollars, staring dumbstruck as he watches his step-brother-- and New Directions suspiciously missing leading man-- flailing contentedly around on the rooftop. He's lying on his back, staring at the fluffy white summer clouds like he's never seen them before.

"Oh god, this is AWESOME!!! How've I never been, where is, why am I up here...?"

"Why  _is_  he up here??" Kurt repeats shrilly, swinging his head round and glaring at Puck, who's just stooped down to pick a packet of what Kurt's pretty sure is Ketamine off the tarry asphalt. Taped to the front of the box is a note on official Carmel High headed paper.

"...'Sorry you missed the competition. love, VA'..." Puck reads, scrunching up the paper in annoyance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Kurt presses a finger to the headache pulsing between his eyes. It all makes agaonizing sense: "He probably wasn't meant to wake up so soon." He muses. "They dosed his coffee. I knew those free drinks were suspicious...Someone should've reminded Jesse St Numb-nuts Finn has the body-fat density of a reindeer."

"WOW, this is... INCRAZY!!" Finn shouts gleefully, having rolled over and now hanging his face over the edge of the rooftop.

"He's making up words now." Puck realises flatly. "Making up words. It's like someone gassed him at the dentist."

"As long as he doesn't start singing Britney Spears, we're probabl--WOAH FINN!!!"

Kurt darts forwards, grabbing Finn's ankle as the other boy tries to yank himself over the very edge of the rooftop. It's only Puck grabbing the other one that stops him throwing both of them to multiple-fracture-ville.

"Oh god, you  _guuuys_..." Finn whines sulkily, and Kurt grits his teeth and digs his nails in harder.

"How the  _hell_  can we get him down?" He hisses, glowering at his boyfriend's face across three inches of asphalt.

Puck makes a face: "...Don't suppose you got any super-sneaky ninja skills you can bust out right about now?"

"I was hoping for useful suggestions Noah!"

Finn struggles harder, like a marine under a cargo-net, and the other two boys hang on for dear life.

"Shame Jesse didn't leave any of that Ketamine in the packet, we could knock him out again."

"Then what?" Kurt snaps "Slide him head-first down the fire-escape??"

"Not like he would feel it..." Puck's voice trails off, and Kurt blinks at that familiar look of schemey confidence that trickles over his features.

" _What_?" Kurt hisses. But Puck just lifts an eyebrow:

"Don't worry; I got this."

 Kurt's mouth gapes for a moment; but Puck just lifts his head and hollars in the direction of their tranquelized friend.

"Hey! Finnessa!"

Finn stops struggling, going rigid like a startled deer.

"I had sex with your girlfriend."

What?

" _What_?" Kurt spits, before he can stop himself.

"...Wha??" Finn sounds like he didn't understand all the words.

"Yeah. Rachel. Your girlfriend. Sexed her up all over the place while you were still getting your guilt-shit together."

Kurt presses his forehead briefly against Finn's ankle: "I don't believe this..."

"But...She's my...But you're not..."

"--Yeah, she's not that bad. Y'know, if you're not into boobs. The legs make up for it--"

"--You're making me  _ill_." Kurt pronounces, but Puck ignores him 'cos Finn is trying to clamber back to his drunken feet.

"Rachel's  _my_  girl-frien'. She wouldn' cheat on me, not with you, you're datin'  _Kurt_."

His drugged-up anger is weirdly intimidating. Kurt and Puck scramble backwards, getting out the way as flaily-Finn pulls himself straight again; takes a few jerky steps away from the edge of the rooftop. It's less Bambi and more Frankenstein's monster.

" _Yeah_." Puck acknowledges, holding up his hands and grinning that crowing-bastard grin he's so good at.

"I cheated on your  _brother_ , with your  _girlfriend_. How fucked up is that?"

Puck takes a couple of steps backwards, leading Finn with eye-contact like baiting a gorilla. He looks close to hilarity, but Kurt is finding absolutely nothing funny about any of this.

"You, you what, did you????" Finn's tongue's too big for his mouth, but he looks furious.

Puck just smirks:

"You wanna know which one gives better head?"

That does it. Frankenstein-Finn swings for Puck's face, all fury and no coordination, and Puck uppercuts him smartly to the jaw and he collapses to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

For a long minute, the two boys stare at their unconscious baritone, breathing heavily, and realising their snazzy competition costumes are going to look mighty suspicious when they get up on stage later this afternoon.

Slowly, the ambient cheerfulness of summer-day birdsong and far-off Regional heats replaces the pounding heartbeat in Kurt's ears.

"...I still don't know how we're going to get him off the roof." He comments eventually, reflexively smoothing his bangs back into place.

Puck turns his head, glancing at his boyfriend, amused:

"You know it's you, right?"

"Of course it's me."

 


	27. (831): I don't remember coming home but there is cereal EVERYWHERE.

**(831): I don't remember coming home but there is cereal EVERYWHERE.**

"Is there any reason for this?" Kurt asks, after a long, extended stretch of disbelieving silence.

Puck gazes nervously back at him from his spot sitting against the cooker, wide-eyed like a kicked labrador.

"I don' know what happened." He admits, holding his hands up like a convict. "Was like this when I got home I swear!"

Kurt scratches the side of his jaw, gazing sleepily around at the damage. He seriously doubts Puck's story-- mainly because there's a big Puck shaped space in the centre of the cereal-carnage that looks a pretty good spot for a nap.

Puck rests his head back against the cooker, clearly trying to piece some big blank puzzle pieces together. "I didn' even get back that late. I was gonna come to bed but I wanted... I think I wanted something to, y'know... soak the alcohol up..."

"Cereal, perchance?" Kurt interjects dryly, and Puck points an angry finger at the floor. "I swear I didn't do this!" He protests.

"Right." Kurt nods; but despite himself he can't be too mad. At least it's Sunday; he doesn't have work to go to. He can spend the rest of the day ordering Puck to pick up every single last grain of Rice Krispie.

He pads across, flinching at the feel of crunchy cereal sticking to the soles of his bare feet, and lowers himself carefully down to sit beside his boyfriend. He bumps their shoulders together:

"Morning baby."

Puck smiles wryly back, looking more than a little bit hungover. "Morning."

"I'd kiss you," Kurt explains "but I'm pretty sure you've been eating Raisin Bran off the floor."

"Are you kidding? Hamster food. I hate that stuff."

Kurt chuckles, glancing down and threading their fingers together, tugging Puck's hand over till it's resting against his leg.

Wait.

Kurt frowns, holding Puck's hand up between them. A big green plastic ring is caught incongruously around his ring finger.

"...Something you wanna tell me?" He asks, as Puck gapes blankly.

Then, he seems to remember:

"...Lucky Charms."

"What about them?"

"The... Lucky Charms. It was... Free in the... Lucky Charms..."

Kurt scrutinises the plastic monstrosity. "Well, no wonder, it's hardly couture--"

"...I was tryin' a find another one." Puck continues in a dazed voice... "I was trying to find one for--"

He stops, eyes snapping back to Kurt's. He looks ever so slightly frightened.

"... _Oh_." Kurt realises eventually, blinking, and drops their hands back to floor-level. "Um..."

Well what on earth is  _that_  supposed to mean?

Kurt glances at the cereal-covered floor, more pleased than he wants to let on:

"Well, you should probably know; I don't say 'yes' to anything less than diamonds."


	28. (212):he thinks he's going to hurt your feelings (718):He can't hurt my feelings (718):I don't have feelings.

  
**(212):he thinks he's going to hurt your feelings  
(718):He can't hurt my feelings  
(718):I don't have feelings.**

"I just... don't think--"

"--You're dumping me." Puck interrupts baldly.

Kurt blinks at him; stupid big innocent eyes like  _Puck's_  the one who's just deposited  _his_  heart squarely in a trash-can.

"--I..." He moistens his lips. "I don't think I would put it that bluntly..."

"--Don't see any point in dancing round it." Puck shrugs, squinting as he glares up into the heavy October skyline.

The parking-lot's almost empty. The re-painted cab of Puck's truck cold against the small of his back, kinda dented from the amount of times he's stood against it like this: staring up into the sky; having a cheeky smoke; being pressed up against it by some hot thing with a phenomenal rack who lets him slip his fingers up her skirt.

(Or Kurt. The last few months; it's just been Kurt. Minus skirt, obviously.)

"Puck."

Puck twitches away from the other boy's fingers reaching for his arm.

"It's fine." He assures him tightly. "Whatever... Were we even actually goin' out? 'Cos I don't remember. Not sure it was that official."

For all the shit he gets put through, Kurt still has a stupidly useless poker face. Puck sees hurt written all over it, along with that self-righteous prickling he gets whenever things don't work out how he rehearsed them. Maybe he expected Puck to cry or some other pansy shit. Yeah ok, he might be fucking boys now, doesn't mean he's a total fruit.

"... How much more official did you want it to be?" Kurt asks, very quietly.

"--I said it's fine, forget it." Puck repeats, popping his thumb against the truck's door-handle. As if he's got anywhere else to be going. Kurt glowers at that hand like he wants to cut it off:

"You could at least  _act_  like you care--"

"--Why?" Puck shrugs.

Kurt has no come-back, just like Puck knew he wouldn't. He hasn't met a chick yet who could answer that one without sounding like a total stuck-up bitch, and looks like Kurt's no different. And why should Puck care? It won't make any difference. He can kick and scream and beg all he wants, but that doesn't stop people drop-kicking him to the kerb. Besides: Kurt's made up his mind. Like Santana said, he's obviously been thinking it for a while.

Puck doesn't  _need_  anyone, that's the thing. Freaking out over one stupid break-up isn't studly, and neither's pining over some guy's hot ass. So he's not gonna do it. Thinking about it, Kurt's actually freed him up to re-claim some kudos with the rest of the student body(ies).

Fighting against bile rising in his throat, Puck pops the door open, swinging his bag into the passenger seat. "It's cool:" He adds flatly, eyes raking over Kurt's slim, tight form. "I was kinda missing boobs anyway."

He guns the engine; drives off with as much attitude as he can manage, crappy exhaust rattling. Kurt shouts something at him; smacks his hand against the paintwork, but Puck ignores him.

Puck knows there's no reason for him to care. It doesn't make a difference, does it? But Kurt's sweater's still balled up on the seat next to him-- the one Puck forgot to give him back today-- and when his eyes start getting too blurry to keep driving, Puck parks up and drapes that sweater across his steering wheel and presses his forehead against the hard leather, breathing in the smell of Kurt, and the longest relationship he's had, until all his tears have soaked into the stupid expensive-ass mohair and he can see enough to sext up the first nameless Cheerio in his phone contacts list.

 


	29. (317): HE IS COURTING ME WITH CHINESE FOOD AND IT IS WORKING.

**(317): HE IS COURTING ME WITH CHINESE FOOD AND IT IS WORKING.**

Kurt really thought he was over crushing on straight footballers. Also, that he was over sending panicky flappy-hands texts to Mercedes from the deserted hallway outside the auditorium. But, as this evening is proving, apparently not.

Okay, 'courting' is possibly not the right term. But it's not Kurt's fault that Puck has a really sensuous way of sucking up noodles. And oyster sauce is definitely an aphrodisiac. And it doesn't help that Kurt is at the passing-out-from-lack-of-vitamins stage of his post-Christmas dieting regime. The smell of sweet chilli and coconut and the gorgeous snap of prawn crackers...

"I want to coat him in peanut sauce." Kurt hisses frustratedly into his iPhone, and listens to Mercedes cackling uselessly on the other end.

"It's not an original thought." She assures him "-- Have you seen the striations on that boy’s abs?"

"No, but I'd  _really like to_." Kurt grits back frustratedly. "He fed me prawn crackers. He licked sauce off my chin. He _paid for takeout_!"

"Shit, you're practically married."

“What do I  _do_ , Mercedes???!—” Kurt pleads.

His wailing is interrupted by a light knock on the other side of the door:

"Hey dude, you ready to come back yet--?"

It’s Puck. Kurt feels heat flush into his cheeks:

"Oh god, I need to go, I need to  _sing_ \--"

Mercedes giggles: "--Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him--"

Kurt hangs up, cutting off his friend’s gleeful chanting and barging back in to re-join his duet partner.

Unfortunately, his duet partner’s standing right inside the door, and Kurt crashes straight into the welcoming expanse of his well-toned chest.

“Oh god, what are you doing right—?“

“—Shit…” Puck grabs Kurt’s arm to steady him and immediately drops to his knees; and Kurt almost has a heart attack before he realises all the other boy’s doing is picking something off the floor.

“We forgot to do the fortune cookies.” He explains, straightening up again and grinning awkwardly. His hand’s still wrapped around Kurt’s elbow.

Kurt stares at him: “...Yes. Yes we probably did…”

Puck holds the red one out for him, and Kurt blinks for a second before he takes it, ripping the foil off like in a daze. Puck mirrors his movement, and Kurt wants to whimper a bit when the other boy removes his hand.

“…Who were you talking to?”

“Oh… Mercedes.” Kurt nods. That’s not a lie. Puck couldn’t have heard him through the door. Could he? “She, um, needed some… emergency haircare advice.”

“Oh… “ Puck nods, then pronounces: “‘Love is on its way’.”

Kurt’s brain cranks to a halt:  _“What?”_

Puck holds up the tiny sliver of paper: “Fortune cookie.”

“…Oh.”

_And breathe Hummel. Breathe like a normal person._

Kurt unravels his own fortune, hoping the lights are dim enough Puck won’t notice what a freak he’s being. Then, with a catch in his breath he reads: “’Tell them before it’s too late’…”

Kurt glances up.

It’s a very long, weird, awkward moment, ‘cos both of them suddenly seem to be staring into each other’s eyes, standing way too close together. He’s not sure when he and Puck got to just about the exact same height, but oh look: his lips are  _right there_ … Kurt’s pretty sure he can still hear Mercedes chanting in his ear:

_“...Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him…”_

Then:

“Uh, wanna get back to the song?” Puck jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yes!" Kurt jumps on it. “Yes, let’s… Sing… A ridiculously inappropriate song.. To each other… In the darkened auditorium…”

Thankfully, Puck doesn’t hear that last bit, as he leads the way back to the stage, stuffing his fortune into the back pocket of his sexily distressed jeans. Kurt sighs: Oh  _god_.

Honestly: he thought he was over it.


	30. (832): I need a straight guy to pretend to be my boyfriend for 30 minutes so that I can pull off an act of petty vengeance. Interested?

**(832): I need a straight guy to pretend to be my boyfriend for 30 minutes so that I can pull off an act of petty vengeance. Interested?**

"Can I get a.... Medium low fat mocha, extra hot, no whip...And for you sweetie?"

Kurt turns to him with a dazzling smile, and Puck blinks at it for a whole second before he processes:

"Oh yeah, uh... Same for me. Though, totally keep the whip." He bumps his hip teasingly against Kurt's. "I love a good whipping."

Impressively, Kurt's smile doesn't fade, but his eyes get about three times larger: "Wow, for any other couple that'd be totally inappropriate coffee-shop conversation." He says, his nervous laugh about half an octave high than normal. But he still takes the opportunity to brush his fingers over Puck's chest and lean conspiratorially in towards the barista: "What's he like?"

The guy on the till looks like someone ran over his brain.

"...Can I have names for them?" He says, in his perfect coffee-house monotone.

"'Course, it's Ku--"

"Hummel-Puckerman." Puck interrupts, grinning his most winning grin. "That's 'P-U-C-K-er-man."

The guy stares at them for a long second. "...Thanks."

He wanders off to doodle his weird Lima Bean hieroglyphics on their takeaway cups, and Kurt takes the opportunity to round on his pseudo-boyfriend and prod him in the chest:

"Did you just double-barrel us?" He hisses, fighting back a giggle, and Puck wrinkles his nose, slipping his arms easily around the other boy's waist:

"Yeah, I just figured 'Pummel' has no ring to it..."

Their lips miss a little when Puck leans in to kiss him; but Kurt's hand is there quick enough, curled against Puck's jaw, keeping him close for a second longer than Puck intended. It doesn't feel that different really, kissing a dude. A bit scratchier maybe, but then, Puck's kissed some pretty manly chicks in his time. The other boy's trembling a little, though whether that's the old Puckerone magic or just nervous energy, Puck's ego's not gonna guess.

"Is he watching?" Kurt whispers against Puck's lips as he pulls away.

Puck tries to look surreptitiously over the other boy's shoulder; squints:

"Can't tell from here..."

"Is it Sebastian? It looked like Sebastian..." Kurt curses himself: "I knew he was never over that weasel-faced cock-ring."

Puck slips his hands into the back pockets of Kurt's pants, re-claiming Kurt's attention and tugging their bodies together again:

"Babe, forget about it; you're with the Puckmeister now." He reminds him cheerfully, and Kurt gives him a weird look that's half gratitude and half major depression. Then, suddenly:

"Oh god, oh  _god_ , he's looking over here, he's  _looking_ \--!"

Kurt starts flapping, smacking Puck's arm and, sure enough, when Puck glances over the hobbit and his evil wizard friend seems to have noticed them and the look on Blaine's face is one super-unhappy storm-cloud.

Well. Only one thing for it.

Puck wraps his hands around Kurt's face, pulling his mouth back to his.

For a minute, Kurt seems to have forgotten that this was the plan, 'cos he just  _keeps on squawking_ \-- but Puck soon frenches him into submission. Actually...  _Wow_ , actually that's kind of...  _Really good_... Puck moans a bit against Kurt's mouth as the other boy's teeth catch his lip, tugging eagerly. Puck drops his arms, wrapping one tight round Kurt's skinny waist, pulling him closer, the other hand slipping down and getting a good grip on his ass. Wow, ok...  _Really_  nice ass; Puck's other hand re-thinks it's mission and follows, making sure it gets a good  _squeeze_  as well.

"Is he still looking?" Kurt breathes when they breaks for air, and Puck answers without hesitation.

"Yup, keep kissing me."

Kurt pushes his fingertips up the back of Puck's head as he licks his mouth apart, making the other boy shudder all the way to his bones. Wow, yeah, ok,  _now_  Puck can feel the difference when macking on a dude instead of a chick: and it's not just that tentative hard-on digging into his thigh--

"--Two non-fat, extra hot mochas, one with whip one without for Hummel-Puckerman?" Their barista announces, voice dripping disdain.

The two boys yank themselves apart, breathing heavily. Puck has to physically stop himself from reaching down to adjust his nuttage. Kurt looks about as close as he's ever come to  _ravaged_.

"Hummel-Puckerman, that's you guys?" The barista reminds them and Kurt gapes soundlessly like he's forgotten what his name is.

"Where's-- where's Blaine?" He asks instead, voice hoarse.

Puck squints towards the window: "Gone. They're... uh... they're gone." He reports dazedly.

Kurt just makes the tiniest little 'oh' sound:

"Actually," He says breathlessly to the barista, curling a possessive hand in Puck's shirt "can we have those to stay?"

 


	31. (+61): Nah, I'm just going to keep fucking him until he realizes we're perfect for each other.

  
**(+61): Nah, I'm just going to keep fucking him until he realizes we're perfect for each other.**

Kurt's out of bed when he gets back; pulled his jeans and shirt from yesterday back on, close to drowning with one of Puck's zip-ups over the top. He looks good in Puck's clothes. Puck nudges his door closed with his elbow:

"Water's still hot if you want it." He tells him, trying to figure out why his stomach's contracting like some rotton piece of fruit; why Kurt's staying on the other side of the room and shifting nervously like they've never had a morning-after before.

"You okay?" He asks and Kurt nods immediately, although his 'yeah' sounds empty when he replies. Puck turns away, toweling the dampness out of his hair.

"...Puck?"

"Mmm?" Puck tries to sound bright-- Brightly off-putting, like some cop shining a flashlight in your face. It doesn't work.

"Look I know... I know this is probably not the best time...Probably the worst time, I don't know, but I..." Kurt sounds sick. "I need to ask you something."

Puck pauses, half-in half-out of his jeans. The alarm bells in his head are deafening. "Can I put my pants on first?"

Kurt's eyes dart away, tiny smile tightening his lips. "Can you--  _yes_ \-- but can you not change the subject? I'm being serious."

Puck feels like the floor's shifting underneath his bare feet, as he does his flies up as slowly as humanly possible. When he glances up again, Kurt's standing in front of him, and his eyes are clear as pool-water.

They stare at each other for a long minute, Kurt's lips half-parted.

"What?" Puck gives a tiny, one-shouldered shrug.

Kurt frowns at him, like he doesn't even know him, and asks: "Do you love me?"

Puck stops moving; stops moving entirely, even his blood stops pounding, and Kurt takes a huge breath in and the next words spill out of his mouth like tears slipping unnoticed across his skin:

"Because we spend so much time together; talking and... kissing and taking each other's clothes off and having lots and lots of sex and I am stupidly,  _stupidly_  in love with you and I just don't know if you've even noticed."

It's like Puck's silence is ripping the words out of him, like they're opposite sides of a magnet: watching him, Puck's heart feels like it's sinking further and further into his stomach, but the quieter Puck becomes the more Kurt needs to say:

"...Because I feel like I would give you...  _anything_  you wanted from me... and... and I need to know if I'm just being a total doormat or if you... if you might feel the same way..."

Puck stares. He stares at Kurt's terrified face and watches all the colours draining out of his skin, and out of his clothes, and out of Puck's mirror and Puck's curtains and the whole room around him and suddenly everything seems cold.

Puck digs his fingernails into his own arm. He doesn't feel it. Digs them in harder. Doesn't feel it. Kurt's eyes are getting darker and darker, and Puck can't  _feel_  anything--

"--Okay." Kurt says; turns just slightly away. "Um. That's-- _god_ \-- that's all I--"

"--Don't go." The words feel like ripping duct tape off skin, and Puck's body moves without his brain, curling his hands desperately around Kurt's face, wanting to kiss him and bring the colour back and make him look like the beautiful boy who was sleeping on the other side of his pillow this morning; but Kurt digs fingers into his wrists and twists his mouth away:

"--Puck--"

"-- _Don't_." Puck gathers him up in his arms instead, choking that stupid one word out, pulling him tight against him; tight until the hard thumping of Kurt's heart replaces the silence of his own.

"Don't, please, Kurt."

The other boy's body is rigid in his arms, but the one hand he has free rests against Puck's head, his breath coming in short gasps against Puck's ear. Puck squeezes his eyes shut.

In the dark, Kurt feels far more real. Puck knows his body perfectly; has explored most every inch of it. His arms fit easily around his slender waist, hidden under Puck's hoody. He knows what it'll feel like when Kurt wraps his legs around him, he knows that he can hold him up easily for a minute and a half then he'll need to find a wall. He knows where the parting is in his hair; he knows the shape he traces with his tongue around the rim of his ear; he knows the difference between his laugh during sex and his laugh after sex and he knows Kurt's fingers one by one and how he can work the muscles in Puck's back with the same ease he picks out harmonies on a piano. Puck bites hard into his own bottom lip.

"The last time." He says, mumbling into Kurt's shoulder. "The last time I was in love with someone I ruined her life and she'll hate me forever." 

Kurt is ominously silent. It feels like years. Then Puck has to fight to keep his tears in as Kurt wraps his hands tenderly around his face and presses their foreheads together. He feels the other boy's eyelashes brush his own, but he can't look at him.

" _I'm not Quinn_." The other boy tells him through his teeth, and there's more than a little bit of hate there. "And you're not sixteen anymore."

Puck breathes for the first time in minutes. He glances up and flinches at the look of defiance in Kurt's eyes.

"She's the mother of my child." He reminds him wretchedly, and Kurt for just a flash looks like he might punch him. Instead he strokes his thumbs across his cheekbones, fighting to keep Puck's gaze on his own:

"And you are an amazing dad. And you have done everything you can for Quinn. You don't owe her anything."

Puck almost wants to laugh. Or cry. or something. He wraps a hand around Kurt's wrist.

They stand there for a long minute, trying to balance on the floor that won't quite hold them up. Puck feels like it's the last morning before armageddon or something. He can hears cars going past outside through walls and walls of glass.

Kurt's voice is empty when he speaks again:

"You haven't answered my question."

Puck scrunches up his forehead, leaning into the touch of Kurt's fingers. He thought he had. He thought he had answered it, but Kurt doesn't always speak his language; he doesn't always hear how Puck's skin's singing when it's brushing his; how his heart feels like it's taking over his whole body when their lips meet. Kurt does  _words_ ; real words, in English:

"Being in love with you is the only thing that's kept me alive some days." Puck tells him, and it's the most honest thing he's said since he told Quinn how fucked up she is.

Kurt blinks. He looks like he didn't expect that at all. He looks just like he did that first night when Puck cuddled up with him on the sofa and it felt more perfect than anything else in the world had in years.

Then, he moves and catches Puck's lips with his.

Oh and Puck knows this. He knows  _this_. He kisses Kurt back, fitting their bodies close like he's done a hundred times, feeling every place their skin touches light up like that Lite Brite pin toy Brittany has.

It's the kind of kissing he's never had from anyone else. It's never balanced out like this; he's always wanted it too much, or not enough; overwhelmed or unbothered. Even with Shelby and Lauren. Even with Quinn.

He breaks away, suddenly breathless, wrapping Kurt up his arms again and pulling him close.

"It's okay." Kurt tells him.

"I'm fucking terrified." Puck admits, though he's kind of grinning.

"Me too." Kurt whispers against his ear. Puck can feel his cheek burning against his and he knows when he looks at him again all the colour will be bright in his eyes. "I love you."

Puck presses a desperate kiss to the side of Kurt's head. "Love you too."

He can feel the stupid giggles welling up in his chest, and buries his face against Kurt's neck as the other boy holds him close.

"We'll be okay." He says, full of hope, and Puck feels it resonate somewhere deep in his chest, from some place even more primal than the fear that's still flooding his stomach:

"...We'll be okay."

 


End file.
